So Lonely Without Me
by Caligryphy
Summary: SnapeHarry slash. Two men, two rooms, a war.
1. Chapter 1

"You're up first."

"Am I…?" Severus Snape finally glances up from the yellowed edges of the Daily Prophet. He has read it six times, cover to cover, including the advertisements. There are seven spelling mistakes in the culture section. He has marked each one with a ring of red ink. Each time he sees the crossword, he laments having finished it the first day.

Potter nods and takes the newspaper. "It's ready when you are." The younger man sinks into the armchair after Severus rises. It is the only chair in the room. Potter usually lies on the bed or stretches on the floor, bare toes wriggling.

"You know, Potter, if you wanted to sit in the chair, you might've simply asked," he says, working apart the buttons on his outer robes. He faces away. Snape never looks while Potter undresses, and knows the same courtesy is extended.

"I don't like the chair. It hurts my back." The newspaper rustles. Potter always flips to the sports section. He seems to enjoy staring at the tiny Quidditch players whizzing from one side of the picture to the other.

Once he had stared for seven hours at the same picture. Snape had hidden the wands that night.

"Everything hurts your back."

"Everything hurts your knee," Potter sniffs.

"It is quite one thing for a man of my age to have stiff joints—"

"If you bloody well whine at me about how old you are again, I'm leaving," he huffed.

"Dramatic, Potter, as always." Snape tosses his robe on the peg by the door. He looses two buttons on his shirt and pulls it over his head. "Some days I think it is a wonder you've ended up here and not in the Royal Shakespeare Company."

"Didn't pass the audition."

Snape catches his grin, then, and peels it away, tucking it out of sight until he can get into the bath. "The competition must've been possessed of an even more revolting flair for melodrama."

"Nah, they were just taller."

The grin threatens to return. "Is that what it is, Mister Potter?"

"I hate it when you call me that—what?"

"Is it as simple as a Napoleon Complex?"

"What." The reply is flat. The newspaper folds.

"This desire to fulfill your destiny as the Savior of the Wizarding World—does it come from a sense of duty, or is it simply Short Man's Disease?"

"Sod off, Snape," Potter growls, glaring up at the half-bare Potions Master.

Severus allows the smile then, forcing it to be a little cooler than it wants. "See something you like?" The question slips off his tongue in honeyed, venomous tones. For just a split-second, he wonders how Potter would react to a serious offer. Then he sees the disdaining curl of soft, pink lips. Perhaps twenty years ago, his body might've held some interest. Now… "No peeking, Potter."

A slight intake of breath, angry and strangled. A few muttered words.

"What was that?"

"A hex."

"Your wand is on the nightstand."

"I don't need a wand to hex you."

"Potter—"

"Water's getting cold," he cuts in suddenly, the younger wizard's voice soft and lost. "Just go. I don't want—I don't want to do this tonight."

XXXXX

Potter uses too much soap and takes his time lolling about in the water like an aquarium fish. Severus never does. He wets his hair, scrubs the smell of close quarters off his body, uses a small amount of the inexplicably orange shampoo to lather his hair, and he rinses. By the time he finishes bathing, the water is still fairly warm.

Tonight, though, he decides not to get out of the bath just yet. Severus draws his knees up out of the water and lays his head back against the rim of the tub. The silence is not precious. The solitude is. He misses solitude, misses loneliness—the way it slips on like an old robe. Misses having his own chambers and a bath that could fill up over a dozen times in a night with near to scalding water. Misses being able to cast warming charms, cleansing charms. Misses the way he can't pace and speak aloud to himself anymore—now there is someone to hear it.

They figured out early on that the bath would give them as much water as they wanted, but the furnace (assuredly as old as the house itself) only enough hot water to fill the tub once a day. Severus can't remember whose idea it had been to share. Of course it had been a practical suggestion, a reasonable suggestion. The first in got the hot water, the second at least got water that wasn't ice cold—and it isn't as if either of them is especially dirty, anyway. It is impossible when your living space is limited to two rooms. But there is something… disconcerting… about sharing the water. It is another forced intimacy in an already awkward situation.

Already Severus knows more about Potter than he ever wanted. He knows that Potter can only sleep with his back against a wall. He knows that Potter snores when he isn't feeling well. He knows that Potter waits for him to fall asleep before he cries. He knows what Potter's bare, slim legs look like—and the lean line of his stomach. He knows that some nights Potter gets cold and lonely in the bed and seeks out the other body for a bit of heat and comfort, his form tucking close against Snape as if using his Potions Master as a windbreak. He knows that Potter usually wakes up in the morning with an eager erection.

Severus Snape knows all this.

And he knows he is going mad.

He stays in the bath for several more minutes. The water will only be tepid, but there won't be a remark. Potter could probably soak for hours in near freezing temperatures without batting an eyelash. Snape listens to the sloshing through the closed bathroom door when Potter bathes. The young wizard makes an incredible amount of noise for a process as fundamentally simple as a bath.

"Potter the otter," Severus says quietly to himself, and sinks deep in the water. 

XXXXX

The door opens and closes with a soft click. "…Are you awake?" Potter whispers.

"Yes." Severus can hear the rustle of cloth as Potter dries and dresses. He does not look. His eyes are closed—his face buried in the pillow. The double bed is comfortable enough, if a bit too firm for discerning tastes.

"Sorry."

He opens one eye, but does not look. "Why?"

"Keeping you awake."

"Yes—because I have so many important appointments in the morning."

Potter sighs. "Why is it you always have to be so… you?"

"If I were anyone else, you would've killed me."

"I still might."

"You might try." Severus burrows deeper into the pillow. The room is already uncomfortably cold, and the blankets aren't warm yet.

"You wouldn't know what hit you," Potter shoots back, a few seconds too late.

"Shut up, Potter, it's late. Get in."

"You're the one who complains if my hair leaves a puddle."

He looks up then at Potter, dressed in his hideous Gryffindor gold pajamas. His glasses lie on the night table next to the clock that they'd finally turned toward the wall. That means those green eyes are unprotected, unfocused. The scar is inflamed. It always is, these days, but Severus can only see it after Potter takes his bath and pushes the wet hair away from his face. He rubs it with a towel—Gryffindor red—and it is only a moment before Potter realizes he is being watched.

"What? Am I doing something wrong? Is there a proper hair-drying technique I haven't learned?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Nothing, Potter, just get in." Severus watches as Potter slings the damp towel over the arm of the chair and approaches the bed. He crawls easily over Severus and scoots underneath the blankets, arranging himself with a generous amount of sighing and flopping. Finally, he stills.

"Night, Snape."

"You are the loudest boy in the entire Wizarding World."

"I'm twenty-four, stop calling me 'boy.'"

"Good night, Potter. …No dreams."

"No dreams."

XXXXX

Severus wakes in the middle of the night, his forehead damp with sweat, his hands shaking, his tongue thick in his mouth. He hopes he hasn't been screaming; that embarrasses him even more than weeping. He rolls out of the bed and staggers to the bathroom.

He washes his face, relieves himself, gulps a glass of water.

When he returns, his side of the blankets are folded back in a sort of welcome. Potter stares at his shadow in the dark, squinting without glasses.

"Bad one?" Potter asks.

Snape nods. He isn't sure if Potter can see it, and adds a yes.

"I had a nasty one an hour ago. Haven't been able to go back to sleep."

Snape grunts and eases himself back under the covers. "I didn't hear you."

"You looked like you were having your own. I almost woke you, but…" Potter smiles. "After the last time—I still have the bruise, you know."

Snape grunts an acknowledgement. They lapse into a short silence.

"…I lied."

"What are you blathering about, Potter?" Their voices sound sleepy, slurred. It is easier to talk this way, to let the antagonism slip under the pretense of exhaustion.

"You laughed. You looked like you were having a good time, at first. That's why I didn't wake you. Thought you might be having a good dream. …I did wake you—when it got bad. I thumped you with the pillow."

"Oh." Snape turns on his side, facing the door to the hallway. The door that anyone wandering down the hallway wouldn't see. The door that is warded and protected by so many spells that it would be easier for an assassin to drill through the floor or down through the ceiling rather than twist the knob. Of course, the rest of the room is warded, too. "Thank you," he adds, feeling charitable.

"You're welcome." 

Potter is quiet for a few minutes.

"It was that bad, Potter?"

"Worst this week. …I think I'm beginning to panic."

"I was beyond panic weeks ago."

"You were not."

"Was, too," Snape retorts. Childish? Yes. But Potter is a child, after all. Even if he is twenty-four.

"Were not—you're snarky, but you're not scared."

"That's because I am well into utter despair, thank you."

"That's two thank yous! Who are you and what have you done with my nasty old Potions Professor?"

"Severus Snape? He's gone 'round the bend. I'm his replacement," he mutters into the pillow.

"Well. I'm Harry Potter. It's nice to meet you." A hand creeps around his side. Severus takes it and shakes, trying not to notice the heat of skin and how good just the smallest brush of contact feels.

"Charmed, I'm sure."

Potter laughs, a clear, bell-like sound, and Severus smiles into the pillow. They are quiet again for a time. "I like you when you're like this."

"Like what?"

"Like this."

"Someone else?"

"When you don't hate me."

"I don't hate you, Potter." He means to say 'I don't hate you' as if to suggest loathe or despise is a more apt term. But the sarcasm—it fails—as it does so often late at night in bed with bloody Harry Potter. 'I don't hate you' sounds almost… fond. Severus shapes the words noiselessly on his lips. I don't hate you. The admission makes his stomach wrench just a little—and it surprises him that he feels better for having said it.

The answering snipe doesn't come. A few moments pass. "I don't hate you, either, Snape. …Are you still awake?"

"Stunned, but awake."

"Shut up," Potter laughs, and Snape can almost hear the eye-roll that accompanies.

"Potter doesn't hate me—black is white, up is down, the moon is made of green cheese."

"And Voldemort's given up his end of the war to care for poor, blind orphans in the south of France."

Snape snorts. He wants to laugh. "Please—you'd sooner find me in bed with Harry bloody Potter."

"You are in bed with Harry bloody Potter," the younger man says. "Ah—if only Rita Skeeter were here."

"Who knew you'd stoop to this for a headline?"

"Who knew we'd stoop to this to save our lives…?" The laugh in Potter's throat bubbles up at a strange and hysterical pitch.

"…Of the prices to pay—this one is not so high," Severus ventures.

Potter shifts restlessly. "Do you think—"

"They'll come for us."

"When?"

"Soon."

"Soon—a week? Soon—a month?"

"Soon." Severus says it so often that he can no longer attach any sincerity to the word.

"That's not enough of an answer anymore. What if they're dead? What if no one knows we're here—what if they've sold us out—what if the war is over and Voldemort's won? Dumbledore secreted us away—he can't do the same for himself. What's to stop the assassins from gunning for him? What's to stop Dumbledore from dying—he's the only one who knows where we are—the only one—"

Severus feels for a hand in the dark and latches onto it. The wizard next to him takes ragged gulps of air. "That's why we've got our wands, Potter," he breathes, forcing his voice to calm. "If no one comes, if the food stops arriving, if there is an emergency—we can break out."

"And what if he told you we could break the wards to get you to agree to this? What if we can't break out? What if he did it to protect us from ourselves like the day he—"

"You're paranoid, Potter."

"That's why I'm still alive."

"You're still alive because they caught you in time." Severus lets out a long breath. The hand he grasps wrenches away all its heat and comfort. Just for a moment, his fingertips skate over a hard line of scar tissue at Potter's wrist.

"Fuck you," hisses Potter, "how dare you bring that up—I was—I was…" 

Snape had heard all the rumors, the explanations. 'Stress,' Minerva had said. 'Shock,' Lupin had said. 'Yes, it is unfortunate. Lemon drop?' Dumbledore had offered.

"Don't you look at me, Snape," barks Potter, kicking the blankets off. "Hand me my glasses."

"What for?"

"I'm going to the bathroom—just give me—"

Snape snatches the glasses a moment before Potter arrives, groping blindly at the night table. "It's cold. I'm not spending tomorrow playing nursemaid all because Harry bloody Potter wanted to cry himself to sleep in the bathtub." He tucks the glasses underneath the bed. Only then does he realize his mistake.

One warm hand presses into his shoulder, holding him down as Potter's wand digs hard into Severus' side. "Give me my glasses."

"No. Go to sleep."

"Damnit, Snape, I'll snap your wand!" 

"Very well, I'll break your glasses."

"And then I'd snap my own wand. And where would we be?"

"I imagine… at Dumbledore's sweet, sweet mercy," he chokes out.

Potter doesn't speak for a few moments. "…So… nothing at all would change…?"

"You'd be blind." And Snape gasps as Potter flops back to his own side of the bed. "Have you gone completely mad?"

"I'm trying, Professor. Boy, am I trying." Potter slinks back under the blankets. "Freezing."

"It's only November. It will get worse."

"What happened to Snape the Optimist?"

"He tends to be put off by being assaulted in his own bed."

"It's half my bed. …Think we could get the dumbwaiter to send us some blankets?"

"You could try," he hazards, though the sudden shift to docile little Harry Bloody Potter seems suspicious. "Though some form of spell or charm would likely be more convincing than cooing at it like an agitated owl."

"No magic," chimes Potter with a yawn, "or they'll be able to find us."

"I know that. …Silly boy," Snape adds, feeling a bit at sea. His skin tingles. And some traitorous part of his brain is trying to convince him to move closer to the warmth on the opposite side of the bed. He shivers.

"You're cold, too?"

Snape pulls up the blankets a little further. "Unseasonable temperatures."

XXXXX

He stares at the closed bathroom door for minutes. No sound comes from beyond. Finally, he raps his knuckles gently and calls, "Potter…?"

No answer.

Words, mostly the names of deities he's never believed in—interspersed with profanity, spill from his lips. "Potter. …Potter!"

No answer.

XXXXX

"You bloody little snot!"

"Fuck off, S-S-Snape," Potter manages weakly, his head drooping against his chest.

"Why didn't you just hex yourself? Hmm? Oh, no, mustn't do things the efficient way, of course not, not for Harry bloody Potter—"

"Don't call me H…"

By the time Snape manages to drag the sopping mess—Harry Bloody Potter, still in his pajamas—out of the bathtub, the boy is unconscious and chilled to the bone. Potter looks blue—no. His skin is waterlogged and opalescent. He looks like a fish, flapping, shivering uncontrollably on the bathroom floor. Snape curses, snarls, spits, and rips the wet clothes off—at any other moment, his hands would've been shaking. He hefts Potter up by grappling the shorter man around the waist and drags the nearly dead weight into the main room.

Severus uses his own towel to pat the worst of the wetness away. Then he shoves the blankets aside, plops Potter in the center of the bed, covers him, and with fingers that tremble only from adrenaline, removes his own sleepwear.

"Deal with this, Potter. We haven't got a fire," he murmurs to no sensible ear, and climbs in next to Potter, wrapping his limbs around the man—the boy—the boy! Snape pulls up the blankets over their heads, hoping to trap more heat. He takes Potter's hands in his own, rubs. After a moment, he turns the m—the boy—towards himself. He places Potter's hands under his arms, snakes a warm thigh between frozen knees, and clutches him close.

Potter's lips are inches away. They don't look so pink, so perfect. Not now.

Severus warms them.

XXXXX

"This is very wrong," he tells the room.

The room does not answer.

Potter is unconscious, but his breaths are deep and even. He is warming up, slowly but surely.

Severus locates a cold spot near the younger man's collarbone. "Very wrong," he whispers, pausing to kiss that bit of flesh. He manages to stop himself from nipping, sucking, biting—but oh, how he would mark Potter if only—

"This—honestly—is wrong. This is a new low. …I've been low. …This is lower."

Snape is grateful that the room, once again, chooses to keep any moral judgement to itself. After all—this is not rape. No. Not even bordering on that infamous four-letter word—not with Severus still in his pants and deliberately avoiding the parts of Potter lurking below the waist and above the knee. But he is taking a fair amount of advantage with the rest.

He combs his fingers through the black shock of hair, pulling the last droplets of bathwater out with precise, steady movements.

The jagged scars cut in near lightning bolts across Potter's wrists. A letter opener, he'd heard. Stolen from Albus Dumbledore's desk after a meeting, concealed in the pockets of his robe—Harry had waited until nightfall to try and end his young life. He hadn't managed it.

Neither had the Death Eaters in the rather kamikaze assault the next morning.

And the evening following.

'I have a place, Severus. It is not quite ready. But it should serve. No more than a few weeks. …It was made for one, not two… but the boy cannot be left alone. Do you understand?'

"Yes, Albus," Snape repeats quietly, his mind clearing as he pauses to lick the corner of Potter's mouth. Har—Potter fits against him, just a few inches shorter, thicker in build. Scarred, smooth, soft, hard—his hands map the textures of the cool skin—and finally Snape insinuates his tongue between the man's lips.

"This is very wrong," he gasps out, pulling back, quaking with tension.

But Potter does not tell him no.

XXXXX

Severus wakes to a glassy green stare. 

"Hullo," the wizard whispers, stretching against him, heated skin sliding deliciously over his own—slick sweat, pebbled nipples, fine hair—and beneath it, the crackle of pent up magic.

"Potter," he mutters, beyond greetings. His right leg is imprisoned between two muscled thighs.

"I'm not waking up," Harry states firmly, tucking his face close against Snape's chest. "I've decided. This is a dream, I can do what I want, I am not waking up."

"Potter," Snape hisses, and a very warm wizard twines himself further in the embrace. Potter's knuckles absently stroke his lower back. "This is not what it app—"

"This is a dream, Professor," he sighs, drowsy. They both are, after the long night. "It's a dream. From now on. A dream. And in the dream, I don't have to hate you, you don't have to hate me, and we can—take care of each other. All right? …All right?" Harry pleads. "Because it's a dream, you see?"

Severus smells the shampoo on Potter's hair. He could fight—he knows. He could snap just once and bring back a swift dose of reality to their little prison.

But Potter is warm. Potter holds him like a dragon curls around its gold. 

"Your glasses are under the bed," he says finally, and Harry sighs, and he sighs, and sleep claims them again.

XXXXX

He and Harry spend the day in bed.

They have never done it before; their routine was established days after arrival. Usually, Snape wakes first, begins his morning ablutions, and by the time he finishes, Potter is awake. They eat breakfast with a moderate amount of sniping. Afterward, Potter begins a complicated series of exercises. The full sequence takes him two hours. Snape reads one of the newspapers, or one of the few books. Sometimes he writes. And Potter finishes his exercises and excuses himself to the bathroom to clean up.

Breakfast comes automatically, the hatch of the dumbwaiter thumping its arrival. It gives them tea, toast, butter, jam, eggs, and two sausages apiece. Today, Severus brings the tray to the bed and they prop it up across their laps.

"The eggs are always too salty."

Severus can't think of anything nice to say. "Eggs are eggs, Potter."

"But these are salty." Potter is naked underneath the blankets. He does not seem to mind.

After breakfast, Severus excuses himself to the bathroom. He lets the water out of the tub and hangs Potter's wet pajamas. He relieves himself, brushes his teeth, washes his hands and face.

When he emerges, Potter has replaced the empty tray in the dumbwaiter. Severus' side of the blankets is folded down. "Come back," the younger man says.

Severus does.

XXXXX

They do not move much. Neither do they speak. When Severus shifts or turns, Potter shifts with him. He refuses to investigate what may or may not be happening below the covers—whether or not Potter is hard, whether or not that supple body will arch into his hands. 

Before supper arrives, Potter rolls out of bed to use the bathroom. "I'll be five minutes," he calls back. The man's arse is glorious.

Severus turns the clock from the wall and times him.

XXXXX

"You skipped your exercises," he says finally, the tension of two hours' silence becoming unbearable.

"I know," Potter sighs. "I promise I'll be a good little killing machine tomorrow."

"Morbid, Potter."

"But true."

"Be quiet."

"…Did you want a bath tonight?"

Snape frowned.

"I know what you're thinking."

"You've never been that good at Occlumency, Potter."

"You're thinking—will he do something terrible while I'm in the bath. Or—will he do something terrible while he's in the bath."

"That was not what I was thinking."

"Yes it was."

"No it wasn't."

"Yes it was."

"No it wasn't."

"Yes—it was."

"I can do this all night, Potter."

"I know—so can I."

"No you can't."

"Yes I can. Don't argue. I don't want to fight anymore. Please," Potter whines and pushes his nose against a bony shoulder, his breath whuffing softly across Severus' collarbone.

"You started it."

"Then I apologize. Sir."

"Don't call me sir when you're nuzzling me."

"I'm not nuzzling. …What should I call you?"

"I don't know." Which is true. 

"I'll call you whatever you want. …Please don't call me Harry Bloody Potter anymore."

"What should I call you, then?"

"Potter is fine."

"You wouldn't like me to call you Harry?"

"I'm not hoping for miracles."

"…Since we are dreaming…"

"Yes?"

"If you would call me Severus—and refrain from any mention of my current or past state of greasiness—I would be amenable to calling you Harry."

"…Deal."

A pause. Sometimes Severus thinks he hears crickets. Which is impossible, so perhaps he is on the border of hallucinating.

"Severus?" The word ghosts across Potter's lips. Something new—something strange. 

"Harry," he answers, just as hesitant.

"I'm going to have a bath. Do you want first or second?"

"Whose turn is it?"

"Yours," Harry says, and Severus nods though he knows Potter is lying. "Do you want me to run it for you?"

"No. …I'm leaving the door open," he decides. "And when you bathe, I expect you to do the same." 

"…Fair enough," Potter sighs.

XXXXX

When he and Potter pass, Severus notes that Harry has pulled on a wrinkled pair of trousers. Severus nods at him, slightly relieved that Harry Bloody Potter is not Harry Literally Bloody Potter. "Won't be warm long."

"Right." The door between them closes halfway.

As Severus dresses in his nightclothes—gray and black, very sensible, cotton—he listens to the unimpeded sounds of Potter bathing. The splash when he drops his lower body into the tub—the sloshing as a bar of very sensible soap begins to rub its way up tight, muscular legs—possibly between spread thighs—the rasp of the soap cool and harsh on such soft skin—perhaps Potter is touching himself. Perhaps he wants a bath so that he can be without the penetrating stare of another. Perhaps he is leaning back in the tub right now, his neck tense, his eyes on the half-open door as his fist jerks over stiff flesh. Maybe Potter is biting his lip, half wanting to be interrupted, half dreading.

Severus sits on the edge of the bed, his fists clenched. Potter takes a long time to bathe, usually. Usually. Dread wins out against want. He pulls the covers aside and climbs into bed. It is still warm from the day spent just… lying in it.

Fully aroused, confused, and awake, Severus settles back.

It sounds as if Potter is washing his hair.

Almost of its own accord, his right hand sneaks down, skates his stomach, ducks underneath the waistband, and finally grasps his engorged shaft. His thumb pets the weeping head a moment before he settles into a steady rhythm, his eyes on the door. If he can finish before Potter emerges…

But he wants Harry to see—he does—he wants Harry to watch him do this—he wants to kiss Harry and fuck Harry and be fucked by Harry—he wants Harry to sneer and insult him while the man forces his body against the bed—he wants Harry to sit across his hips and whisper such beautiful lies—this is so good—I want you—I need you—

I don't hate you.

Severus comes with a gasp. Pleasure and guilt jelly his bones for a few moments. Potter is not out of the bath. The Potions Master eyes his wand with longing, forces himself to his feet, and cleans himself up with a spare dinner napkin—which he then places in the dumbwaiter. He closes the hatch, hears the thump, and opens the hatch. The napkin is gone.

He imagines putting their wands in the dumbwaiter. He imagines tearing out his heart and putting it in the little wooden box, closing the hatch, hearing the tiny thump.

He only hears water.

"What are you doing in there, Potter—ballet?" he snaps.

XXXXX

Snape wakes up screaming.

Harry huddles next to the wall. Either he doesn't hear, or pretends not to.

XXXXX

It is as if yesterday never happened.

Potter does his exercises. Snape cleans up, reads.

The hatch on the dumbwaiter sticks at lunchtime. Severus smashes his fist against it. It opens easily.

"Are you trying to fucking break it?"

"Oh, I'm sorry—have you now deigned to speak to me?" Lunch is tomato soup, crackers, and chicken salad sandwiches.

"Don't be a prick—we depend on that thing. Treat it with a little courtesy. Of course, it is you we're talking about, and I don't think someone like you would know courtesy if it bit you—"

"I am not some bloody nanny here to take your abuse, Potter! Here," Snape snarls and picks up the wands from the nightstand, flinging them at Harry. "Make yourself useful and kill yourself properly." He barely has a moment to register the unguarded shock on Harry's face before he flings himself into the bathroom, slams the door, braces his back against it, and hangs his head until his dignity has dissolved in a rain of silent tears.

XXXXX

A quiet knock. "Supper's here."

"…I don't want it."

"It's roast and potatoes. I think the waiter wanted to smooth things over."

Snape's stomach rumbles. "Not hungry."

"…I want to smooth things over, too."

"Go away, Potter."

"No, I—thank you. I know you… I know you're here because of me. It's all my fault. I know that if I weren't such a sodding wreck, you would probably be in a place where they at least gave you your own bed and something new to read—"

"For Heaven's sake, Potter—shut up."

"I'm sorry. …Please come out?" It isn't even a whine—it is a plea. "Please?"

"So lonely without me?" he grunts.

"…Yes."

XXXXX

Snape doesn't mention the bath. Neither does Potter. They usually don't skip the bath—Snape has expounded on the perils of letting their personal hygiene go even for a day or two in a closed room—but neither brings it up. They eat and drink in relative quiet. Then they dress for bed, each man facing an opposite wall.

It is somehow easier to talk when lying down.

"The potatoes were excellent."

"The roast?"

"Abysmal."

"Good word."

"There are many of those in a large book called the Dictionary."

"Why get one of those when I've got you?"

"It's a wonder you graduated."

"…Do another big word."

"Verisimilitude."

"Another one."

"Prestidigitation."

"It's really cold tonight. Soon, we'll be able to see our breath in here. …Do you mind if I got a little bit closer? You're nearly as good as a space heater."

"Whatever you like, Potter."

Potter smells like bathwater and that orange shampoo. His lips are pink and perfect and Severus does not torture himself by looking over at them. "Mm. …I thought Slytherins were cold-blooded."

Snape feels the man beside him tense as he realizes what he's said. Before the boy can stammer apologies, the older wizard decides to let him off the hook. "Only figuratively."

"Warm. …Do another one."

"Declivitous. Go to sleep."

"No dreams."

"No dreams."

XXXXX

He wakes up wound around Harry. The younger wizard nuzzles his neck.

"H… Potter?"

"This doesn't have to be miserable. Us being here. You don't have to…" Lips move against the pale flesh above Snape's collar, and he whispers, "I can do things for you." Green eyes rake the visible length of his body. "To you."

His voice catches in his throat and before Severus can confirm that this is, in fact, not a dream, Potter prods him gently onto his back and hooks one leg around his waist. The boy slides astride him easily, keeping most of his weight on his knees.

"Potter," he gulps, his quiescent cock stirring at the sight of the young man above him unfastening buttons.

"Shh," he warns, staring down at a point near Snape's eyes. "This is happening. And it's Harry, remember?" The pajama top parts and slithers off solid shoulders, revealing a nearly smooth, finely muscled chest. "…Severus?"

Snape closes his eyes and opens them again cautiously. By the dim light from the bathroom and without his glasses, Potter looks almost comical. His hair sticks up—he blinks uncertainly—his chest rises and falls as if he's run a marathon, belying the young man's nervousness.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" Potter asks, the question low and rasping. He places his hands on his chest and strokes down, slow, slow, drawing the penetrating gaze across the flat of his stomach. "Isn't it?" he presses, rocking his hips.

Severus puts a hand on Potter's hip, where smooth skin vanishes under the elastic waistband of the pajama bottoms, and stills the motion. "What is it you want, Potter?"

"Harry," he corrects. "I don't want anything. I want you."

"So I'm nothing, Potter?"

"Wh—no, you're not nothing—don't make this hard. It doesn't have to be," Potter pleads sweetly, his breath minty and fresh enough to make Snape wonder if he'd gotten up to brush before beginning the seduction. The younger wizard leans closer, offering that perfect, pink mouth. "Don't you want to kiss me?" he whispers.


	2. Chapter 2

Snape's tongue scrapes along the back of his teeth. "You've never done this before."

"Yes I have," Harry replies. His righteous indignation flutters for a moment. "Just… not with anyone who could tell me if I was doing it wrong. If you want—something else. Tell me. I can—I'm open to suggestions."

Without the glasses, Harry looks older and younger at the same time. If he looks hard enough, Snape can see the shadow of James Potter there. Lily. Cedric Diggory. Sirius Black. A dozen shadows, each darker than the last. "What do you want, Potter? What are you playing at?"

"Goddamn it, Snape!" Harry snarls, rearing back like a serpent. "You want to know what I want? What I want, all right, what I really want is to stop feeling like a prisoner for five fucking minutes. That's all. I want to feel good—not just not bad, but good—there's a difference. Just for a little while," he pleads. "I want to stop playing these weird head games that we seem to be so good at. I want to stop getting angry with you. Because I'm not angry with you! Not anymore—and I don't understand why we have to…" His hands rake through his rumpled hair and down over his neck, fingernails leaving fine white lines that vanish into his skin almost immediately. "…I know you were kissing me the day after I—I know you were kissing me. …I felt it… Didn't I…?" Potter's head hangs. He sounds unsure of everything. Unsure, broken, cold. 

Severus clutches Potter at the hip. His skin feels hot. It reminds him of the children's game—lowering his hand over a candle flame—just to see how close he could get before the pain made him jerk away.

"…Don't look at me for a minute," Potter mutters.

"Potter!" Snape barks, and the emerald gaze meets his. "You were going to give yourself pneumonia in the bath. I was trying to warm you up." Which is a ridiculous excuse, if not a patent lie. "If it became—something more—intimate. I apologize."

"Well I don't want your apologies!" Potter shouts, magic crackling under his skin.

"And I'm not after a mercy fuck!" Severus snarls. Sometimes he thinks his tongue might slice the inside of his mouth.

"No…?" Harry laughs humorlessly. "…Can I have one, then?" he whispers. The livid scar peeks from underneath his hair as he leans forward.

Severus feels a sympathetic twinge in his arm, in his jaw, lower. He remembers the taste of Potter, the scent—he remembers the guilt. He wants to do the right thing. He wants to tell Harry that it won't solve anything. It won't change him; it won't change either of them. Not for the better, at any rate. They'll still fight, they'll still shout—likely, it will shatter their latest fragile truce and they'll truly hate each other afterward. He wants to tell Harry that he should forget about it, that they should lie down and go back to sleep, lie down and forget, sleep. He wants to repeat the lies. It will be better in the morning. They'll come for us. Soon. For once in his life, he wants to live up to all the trust placed in him. For once, he wants to be a good man, wants it like he wants forgiveness, respect, solitude, his own chambers, Albus' affection, revenge, a bare forearm, Potter's body, Potter's gratitude—he wants—he can feel it in his mouth and in his guts—he feels it until it threatens to drown him—

Say no.

"…I'll do whatever you want," Harry says.

This is a test. Say no. Say no. God damn you. Say no.

"…Severus?"

Snape shudders. He puts one foot on the honorable path and stops.

Lower, and lower, and lower still.

"…Put on your glasses."

Harry hesitates for the space of a few heartbeats. The wizard plucks them from the night table and slides them in place.

"You will not stroll into this blindly."

"Tough, when you're nearsighted," Harry tries to joke.

Severus surges up against Potter. The younger man startles back instinctively. Potter's mouth is slack with surprise—green eyes dart nervously up and down. "You have done this before." Severus doesn't quite stop himself from asking.

"Yes... but it wasn't like this at all," Harry offers, his heartbeat hammering against his chest so hard that Severus can feel it.

"I endeavor to be a unique experience," Snape sighs in anticipation and wonders how disappointed Albus would be at Severus surrendering his last chunk of coveted decency. He vows that if the boy—the man—backs out now, he will never, ever forgive him.

But this little piece of banter actually makes Harry blush. He seems to be caught between staring at their rather intimate position and trying to think of something encouraging to say. "I doubt it will be forgettable," he murmurs, but Snape hears it and decides he's had enough talking.

He pushes himself further up, his weight on the heels of his hands, and bends his head to capture Potter's lower lip. It bobs out of reach for a split second, then returns, crashing against his mouth with a greedy moan. He rides the motion, yielding, letting Potter nip at his mouth until the boy laps against the sealed line of lips, and Severus opens as a long-buried vault, keyed to accept only this as a password.

It is worth it.

Potter kisses sweetly. Soft lips, enough tongue to tantalize, affectionate. The sort one might sneak into the Astronomy tower and share with a blushing companion. They remind Severus of silly childhood stories where the dead wizard turns out to be sleeping—where the dragon yields after a thorn is pulled from between his claws.

He grips Potter by the neck and forces him closer, harder, keeping him there until the man understands that there will be no mercy—that kisses are best when they are as much composed of teeth and tongue and hot breath as the gentle grasp of lips. The pillow cradles his head as Severus eases back, drawing Harry down with him.

Potter forcibly breaks away and tears the fogging glasses from his face. "These just get in the way, I promise," he hisses, and dives back in, fisting one hand in the sheets and one in inky black hair, crushing their mouths together. The man shows less skill here; too much urgency bleeds through in sloppy licking and sucking—not that Severus minds. It is a joy not to have to be practiced when Harry shifts closer and breathes into his mouth, stilling for seconds before renewing the assault.

Worth it, worth it, worth—stop bloody thinking—

Snape lets him carry on a few more moments, before he slides down and snaps at the edge of Potter's jaw with teeth yellowed from age and the love of Darjeeling.

A tremor runs through Potter, and the man melts further into his embrace. "You bite—I knew you'd bite—knew it," he gasps, his hips humping against the body below him.

Severus purrs his approval and sets his teeth into the soft flesh of the man's neck, biting just hard enough to leave a mark. His hands map Harry's chest, combing through fine black hair.

"Fuck—oh, fuck," Harry cries, tightening the fist in Severus' hair and, to the Potion Master's surprise, keeping him close.

He can feel Potter's cock now, stiff against his stomach. "Open to suggestion, are you?" he asks, his voice sinking into a husky whisper. He nods and moans as Snape begins rolling down Harry's pajama bottoms, each twist revealing another inch of creamy skin. "As am I. Care to make a request…?"

"Anything you want is fine," the younger man gasps, watching his own receding waistband as if hypnotized.

"Much as I enjoy submission in the classroom, Potter—"

"Harry!" he cries, grabbing one of Snape's wrists and pushing his hand down, encouraging it to slide underneath the cloth. "Call me Harry. I don't want you to fuck me and call me Potter."

"Aren't we presumptuous."

He frowns. "You won't call me Harry?"

"Harry—I will have you know that I enjoy a good buggering as much as the next man. Furthermore, we haven't any decent lubricant—I've no desire to ache for a week and neither do you." The pajama bottoms slip from the lovely curve of Potter's arse and are kicked off until they vanish over the edge of the bed.

"I like the ache." Harry slowly rocks back, revealing his flushed cock.

It points at his mouth like a divining rod. Snape imagines what it would be like to take that beautiful cock between his lips—or legs, for that matter. "There is a difference between well fucked and fucked raw."

"Say 'fucked' again." Potter pants as he rucks up the corner of Snape's top.

"Whatever for?"

"Your voice is sexy."

Severus pauses. No one has ever told him that any part of his person, on any level, could be considered sexy. Lucius, while drunk, had once called him 'a bit of all right.' Emphasis on the 'bit.' "Is it." He leans up as Potter yanks his shirt over his head and tosses it into the shadowy ether that has swallowed Harry's own clothing.

"Yeah."

Two pairs of hands and a foot—Potter's—help Severus off with his pajama bottoms. Harry laughs, splitting the silence. "What?" Severus snaps. The man is supposed to be nearsighted—and it is dark—how much could he see?

Harry shakes his head and smiles. "We're naked."

"How old are you?" Severus asks, distracted from putting the proper amount of scathe in his question by Potter licking a finger and teasing one of his nipples.

"I like you when you sleep on your back. Then I get to look at you. Or—half of you. Your profile."

"It's mostly nose," he replies, breath hitching. The fingertip circles his nipple until it hardens into a firm peak, then flicks at it.

"It's nice. Er… Can I—may I ask you something?"

"Out with it. I don't have the patience of a saint." Snape thinks he could pound nails.

"How do you—want to—because if we aren't going to—and I don't think I can—I should lie d—my back," he finishes, urgently grinding his erection into Snape's stomach.

"For Merlin's sake—it's not NEWT level Arithmancy—even Muggles manage—find a comfortable position and we'll go from there."

Potter nods and slides to one side, settling against the mattress, coaxing Snape towards him until they lie next to one another—much like they do at night. But now Harry tickles Severus' side with the lightness of his touch; now Snape darts in to suck on the hollow at the base of Potter's throat.

"…Fucked," Severus purrs, just before he pulls Potter's slick, writhing body flush against his own. A hand shifts between them, then another—and just as Severus finds himself wholly in Potter's clutches, his own hand tightens around the younger man's cock. He milks the silky flesh slowly, drawing his fingers from root to tip, teasing the weeping head.

"Say it again," Harry begs.

"Fucked," he growls, thrusting into Harry's grip. Their position is a little clumsy, but it allows him to kiss and bite and touch and stroke—"Fucked." Severus realizes it also has the added bonus of being easy on Potter's back and his own dodgy knee.

Harry moans and tosses his head, jet-black hair spilling darkly against the pillowcase. "Unh—I—" is all he manages to groan before he begins driving his hips forward. Coherence deserts them both as the room fills with the sound of flesh impacting flesh. Severus notes that Potter favors a small cry, high-pitched and toward the back of the throat, whereas he himself prefers a shuddering whine.

"Sev—er—us," Potter keens, separating each syllable on a thrust.

"Yes," he hisses. Your voice is beautiful, Snape does not say, and covers Harry's mouth with his own again simply because he can.

Potter sucks his tongue, gasps for air, and offers his throat so obviously that Snape hardly has a choice as to whether or not he sets his teeth against the pale flesh. When he bites, the younger wizard drops his jaw in a silent scream and quietly comes against Snape's stomach. 

Severus, not to be outdone—least of all, by Potter—answers by spilling himself into Harry's hand a few seconds later. The other man coos nonsense and kisses his brow.

Worth it.

A small part of Snape wonders how badly all of this will end. Maybe that is why his desire is always cut with dread—nothing Severus wants ever comes without a hefty price.

Potter laughs. "…Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily… life is but a dream…" he sings, his voice soft and unpracticed.

Snape can't think of a response.

After a few minutes, Potter rises. He brings back a washcloth and wipes off his hand. Harry offers Severus the cloth, but Severus cannot move. So Potter cleans up for him, replaces the washcloth in the bathroom, pads back to the bed, scoots under the blankets on his own side, places a proprietary kiss on Snape's lips, curls against him, and goes to sleep.

An hour later, Severus tells the room and a sleeping wizard—

"You're very irritating. You know that, don't you?"

XXXXX

He follows the routine.

Snape wakes first, grabs his clothes from the peg, creeps into the bathroom, relieves himself, dresses, washes his face, brushes his teeth, scrutinizes his appearance in the mirror for several minutes (wincing at the state of hair, teeth, and—yes, thank you—nose), waits another few minutes, gathers his courage, exits the bathroom, and is pinned to the wall by sleepy green eyes. He does not see how Potter gets from the bed to the bathroom—suddenly the door is closed. Because his hands are twitching, Severus makes the bed.

It reeks of sex.

Harry exits the bathroom a few moments later, as naked as he was when he went in. "Brr," he says. Snape thinks the made bed must've derailed the younger man's plans, because he shifts gears and pulls on his pajamas, wrinkled though they are from a night on the floor. 

Snape stands in the corner, feeling as much an arse as he did at his first school dance.

"It's cold," Potter says.

"…Yes."

"Really, really cold."

"Yes."

"Is it—would it be okay—"

"You want to—"

"I'll make the bed again, I swear—"

"No—go ahead—I was—"

"It's just that it's so cold."

"Yes."

Potter climbs back into bed. "I mean, it's not as if we get much accomplished before breakfast anyway."

"This is true."

"…Do you want to get in?"

Severus feels the cold wall at the small of his back. "I've…" He swallows and tries again. "I've already dressed."

"Ah. Right. Well. …You're sure you're not cold? It'll be warmer later—"

"Why all this harping on the temperature, Potter?" Snape catches himself before he starts pacing. The room is so small sometimes—

"It's cold, is all. You don't have to snap at me."

"I'm not snapping at you!" Snape snaps. "Oh, bloody…" He drops himself into the chair. "This was a bad idea."

"What, getting out of bed?" Harry tone tries for mild and achieves annoyed.

"You know what I'm talking about. Insipid brat." He hunkers down in the chair, arms folded.

"Well, which is it, Snape? Am I a child, or a man? …Or does the boy thing get you off?"

Severus looks at him, then, half reclined in the bed. Harry's expression is wary, but defiant. A battlefield mask. Snape resists the urge to go for his wand. "Yes, Potter, a noticeable lack of experience really does it for me—drives me absolutely wild."

"Fuck you. Oh, wait, you won't fuck me—I'm too bloody delicate—or maybe—yes—here. How about I pretend to be unconscious?" Potter flops back on the bed and closes his eyes. "Is this what you want?"

"What I want, Potter, is someone who knows what in Merlin's name he wants! I've had my fill of sodding students!"

"Do you pick one from every year, are they disposable, like tissues? What number am I? Tenth on the list? Further down? Took you a long time to get to me—what was I doing wrong? You prefer blondes? Maybe all those times I was passed out at the infirmary, you obliviated Madame Pomfrey and forced yourself on me—"

"Mister Potter," he snarled, "before you make radical insinuations, might I remind you that those who live in glass houses shouldn't crawl on top of their professors and beg for a shag!"

"Like you didn't want it! Like you weren't hard the second I woke you up!"

"I did not force myself on you, Potter!" Severus shouts as his knees bang the side of the mattress. He finds himself nose to nose with the green-eyed monster, who has risen up on his knees and snarls back fiercely. "I did not force you!" Albus, believe me. "You asked for it! Admit it!"

"Admit you wanted it and you liked it!"

Severus grinds his teeth and gives the barest of nods. "Fine! Now you."

"I asked for it," he says calmly. "I wanted it, and I still want it. Now," Potter says, extending a hand, "come here, you're warm."

Snape's eyes widen.

XXXXX

"But… why?"

"Because. Shut up."

"You're out of your head."

"Probably. Be quiet."

"Make me, Potter."

"You asked for it."

XXXXX

"…I'm not much to look at. You can't have missed that." But already Severus' hands are searching for the clasp on his trousers.

"Pfft. I'm no prize," Harry replies. "…Will you do the biting thing again?"

"You're the one who asked for it."

XXXXX

The routine holds, but for a few alterations.

Exercises happen. So does reading the old Sunday Edition of the Daily Prophet. Breakfast is a leisurely affair. They talk now, though the conversation is chosen carefully from subjects such as weather, vocabulary, the Quidditch debate, their respective aching injuries, the state of salt in the eggs, favorite foods, the portraits at Hogwarts, and why boysenberry jam is sent every third day. Severus tries to keep back the sarcasm—Potter avoids leaping to the defensive.

They usually stay away from the personal.

XXXXX

Potter goes out of his way to offer the salt, pepper, and butter. Severus amputates the bread crust.

"…May I ask you a question? And feel free to be kind on this one," Harry cautions. "…Am I any good?"

Severus blinks. "Any good?"

"You know… at. You know."

A brow arches.

"Okay, don't look at me like that—fine—I withdraw the question."

"…Let us put it this way. If I were forced to assign a mark… you would pass."

"Oh." Harry smiles. Snape thinks he detects the hint of a blush. "Thank you."

XXXXX

"I am—really—a rather ugly man."

"No you're not."

Snape folds his arms.

"You're not. I'm not backing down on this one," Harry says, sticking out his tongue.

"Put that mouth to better use, Potter."

"You asked for it."

The phrase has become something of a joke between them.

XXXXX

"…We'd better take a bath."

"Whose is it first?"

"Don't know," Harry pants, grinning against damp skin. "If you get to go first, can I watch?"

"May I watch."

"Of course you can. I'm first then, am I?"

XXXXX

Severus tries to be glad that Potter has found a new coping mechanism. Namely, sex. Certainly it isn't a healthy way of dealing with grief and loneliness—it can't be, not when a lecherous, greasy Potions Master twenty years senior is your partner.

He is not a good person. He couldn't be a good person and enjoy taking advantage of Potter's vulnerability. He begins to hate looking at himself in the mirror.

Sometimes he lies next to Potter and imagines what it would be like if Lupin had been sent instead of him—if circumstances had been different, he wonders how long it would be before Harry wound himself around the mangy werewolf. Which, of course, is a preposterous thing to wonder. As soon as the full moon hit, he either would've torn Harry to pieces or turned Potter into a dark creature.

When he has nightmares now, Harry wakes him and kisses him.

The room seems very small.

Better descriptions elude Severus. These days he can't decide between the words 'cozy' and 'suffocating'.

XXXXX

"Don't stare at me."

"…"

"I mean it, Potter. Kindly pick another object."

"…"

"What? What do you want? All right. What is it? What shall we talk about?" Severus tosses down his fork so that it clatters on his plate. A bit of fluffy yellow egg escapes onto the floor. Potter continues to stare. "I imagine there's s—"

"How do you feel about melted butter?" Harry cuts him off.

"What?" Snape stops.

"As a lubricant. Melted butter." Potter indicates the butter dish on the breakfast tray. "Comes every morning."

Snape blinks. "…As it has since the first day."

"Yup."

"…We are absolute morons."

XXXXX

Severus finds himself constantly on edge, even more so now that Potter will do things like corner him, unbutton his shirt, and finger a nipple—for no apparent reason.

It must be some bizarre, slow form of torture.

XXXXX

Harry wakes him around four when the bathroom door closes.

"Dream?" Severus asks as Potter returns to the bed.

Harry doesn't answer right away. He climbs in and sighs. "Not a nightmare. Just thinking."

He swallows. They do not have these kinds of conversations. "…About?"

"I don't know. …What's the best way to tell someone you're sorry you got them crippled?"

"…Foot the medical expenses, perhaps?"

Harry growls. "Poor choice of words."

"Oh. …It was unintentional." Snape's voice is still thick with sleep.

"I know."

"…Shall I tell you it wasn't your fault?"

"No."

"She should never have been on that raid. …Granger was a better tactician than soldier any day. I imagine they'll fit her with a prosthetic and she'll spend the rest of the war sitting in a room full of maps, moving stickpin wizards from one place to another."

"…You said that just to make me feel better. And you're not even doing a good job at that. Didn't anyone ever teach you how to empathize?"

"Potter. When Albus' toys break, he puts them away to mend. Look at us."

Harry is quiet. "…You aren't broken, though."

"Believe it or not, Potter, you aren't the only one to make some ridiculous choices." Though it isn't what Snape refers to, Harry glances at the Dark Mark.

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

"All the time?"

"No. Comes and goes."

"So does mine." Harry indicates the lightning bolt scar. "He's still out there. Guess that means the battle rages on."

"Suppose so." That seems to be an end to the talking. Severus' eyes are closing when Harry continues.

"…I'm glad they sent you. At first, I hated the idea. But now… I couldn't imagine being here with anybody else."

"Just think, Potter, if they'd sent Tonks, you could be with a different wizard every night." 

Harry smacks him with the pillow.

XXXXX

"Why did you join them?"

Severus stretches out on the bed. A bead of sweat rolls back into his hair. "Why do you want to know?"

"Because I'm curious. Because I want to know more about you than how you like your eggs seasoned."

His legs feel like boysenberry jam. "All right, Potter. Do you want the drawn-out, silly, cliché response that I gave to Albus, or do you want the truth?"

"…Can I hear both?"

He shifts. "Basically I told Albus it was because of the fame, the power, money, family, peer pressure, revenge, so on, so forth."

"That isn't the truth?"

"A collection of plausible motivations, but not the real reason."

Harry slithers closer on the sheets. "What's the real reason?"

"They asked."

XXXXX

"…I hate Sirius for dying. I hate him for promising me something and then yanking it out of reach."

"…I hate him too."

"…"

"What?"

XXXXX

"Albus drugs his candy."

"No!"

Severus nods over the edge of the newspaper. "Um-hm. Lemon drops—let's just say a non-reactive calming potion and a very slight cut of Veritaserum have aided him more than once."

"You're kidding."

"Do you know what he does to his chocolate biscuits?"

"I've eaten those!"

XXXXX

Snape had considered himself a top. Not that he'd ever been a Cassanova, of course, but based on a sample of his experiences, he'd decided to declare his preference.

He'd done that too soon.

"Ready?" Harry asks, smoothing his rough palms over luminously pale skin. 

"Get on with it."

"You asked…" Potter slides two slicked fingers down the cleft of the older wizard's arse. "For it." His touch is so light it makes Severus squirm.

"Don't waste the butter."

"Shh. You'll break my concentration." Potter smacks one of the offered cheeks.

Severus grips the back of the chair harder and shivers. Bent in this position—his legs on either side of the arm of the high-backed chair, his good knee supporting his weight on the seat cushion, his bad knee stretched out comfortably beside—Harry can take him from behind without causing either one of them any pain. 

Not that Harry hadn't wanted to try it face to face—he had—but Severus was done trying to explain to a deluded mind why he didn't particularly want to watch Potter watching.

"Was the swat too much?"

"No—but don't get carried away."

Fingers circle his arsehole and then begin to work inside. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Severus can hear the amusement and knows he will be now be subjected to a swat or two in the near future. His body is being learned like a discipline—not Potions or Occlumency, but one of the foolish, flashy classes in which Harry used to show talent. Every moan is noted and catalogued; maneuvers that earn a favorable response are repeated. It is odd to be so studied; it reminds Severus of spying again, to be completely conscious of your own actions in case they should accidentally reveal something private.

"…You're a million miles away." 

"Just do it, Potter, enough with the foreplay," he hisses. The fingers withdraw as slowly as they went in. "Stop teasing and move."

Harry wraps an arm around his middle and leans in, rubbing his cock against Severus' backside. "Why can't we go slow for once?"

"Slow is for lovers, not convenient outlets." The barb is unintentional, but hits hard regardless. Snape pushes back as he feels the slick, blunt head at his grasping hole.

"…I wish you liked me." Harry groans and eases in until he is completely sheathed. "I wish you liked me enough to ask me for it instead of me asking you all the time," he grunts and begins to move. "I'd let you fuck me if you wanted—if you want to, just say it—it was fine the first time—I'll suck you—just ask me—don't even ask me, just take me, show me what you want and I'll do it—" The thrusts speed until the chair legs thunk against the floor.

"You're—doing—it—right—now—you—ridic—oh, fuck me," Severus manages. Potter drives deeper and deeper, his thick young cock overwhelming all else. Snape drops his forehead into his arms and hangs on, wailing at the onslaught, the Dark Mark flashing into his vision as his eyelids flutter open and closed.

XXXXX

The clock read three in the morning when he went in. Severus guesses it is now somewhere around five.

In defiance of the fact that he is as cracked as Potter, he has not filled the bathtub with freezing water. No water at all, actually. 

A few minutes alone.

It is cold.

And he smells like butter. Not that he isn't getting used to it.

Severus draws his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on one. His fingers are numb. He tells himself it would be absolutely useless to try and choke Potter to death until they are warm again. Severus stays in this position for some time—what feels like an eternity and must be about fifteen minutes.

When he looks up, Potter is staring at him from the bathroom doorway. The Gryffindor gold pajamas are wrinkled and suddenly seem the color of bile. "…Are you okay? …Snape?"

He bares his teeth. "You wish I liked you?" he spits, parroting Harry. "You wish I liked you? If I didn't like you, Potter, would I smell like a concession stand? If I didn't like you, would I have saved your life? If I didn't like you, I wouldn't have agreed to this—if I didn't like you, I wouldn't have molested you in your sleep."

"You still feel guilty about that?"

"Would you kindly fuck off, Potter?"

"No. Can't go to sleep. Bed got cold."

They stare. Snape extends his legs the length of the tub and crosses one ankle over the other. He folds his hands, pushing his index fingers into a steeple. "You do realize what they'll do when they find out I'm taking advantage of the Boy Who Lived—"

"One, you're not taking advantage, two, I'm not a boy. We've been through this. We're both attracted and it's better than sneaking a wank. Come to bed." Harry offers a hand to help him up.

"I haven't been with anyone in fourteen years," Severus blurts.

"…I'm sorry?"

"You've interrupted a very long drought."

"…F-fourteen years?"

"Nearly half your life, Potter. Three-fifths, more like it. I haven't been with anyone in fourteen years, until…"

Potter leans against the sink and takes a deep breath. "In the spirit of confession…"

"God, don't tell me," Snape snorts, "don't even bother. I know."

"…Was it that obvious?"

"I had a strong suspicion. It's been part of my life's business to keep tabs on your activities at all times. I doubt, especially in the last few years, that you would've been able to sneak away with anyone other than Weasley, Shacklebolt, or Lupin."

"Ron is straight, Kingsley is in love with his wand, and Remus is like—my Dad."

"Exactly." He draws his knees up again. "Merlin help me. I'm responsible for deflowering Harry B—"

"If you call me Harry Bloody Potter, I will curse you."

"Curse yourself."

"Sod off."

"Fuck you."

"Greasy git."

"Stupid child." Neither of them have any venom left. Harry offers a hand up. Snape stares at it, then up at Potter. "…I can't do this much longer. They have to come for us. They have to."

"They will. Soon," Potter says, the hint of a smile on his lips.

"When?"

"Soon."

"…You are such a liar."

"Enh, you asked for it. Come on." 

Severus takes the hand, pulls himself up, and follows Harry back to bed.

XXXXX

One afternoon, they arm wrestle. 

Potter beats him four times, then sucks him off by way of apology.

Snape can't resist telling him it's the only cock he's ever going to want, and can't resist thinking that it's the only one Potter has ever had.

XXXXX

"Fourteen years, huh? What makes a man wait fourteen years?"

"This isn't my idea of a bedtime story."

"Want to get up to tell me, go ahead. It's freezing."

Snape gives in, repeating some of the less sordid details. It's the same thing that will happen to them. They will be discovered, separated, Severus will be shunned. He knows it.

"Oh," Harry replies, yawning, "I'm sorry." Severus strokes his rumpled hair. 

XXXXX

Harry answers the question without being asked.

"Ten people were in his office. All talking about me. I picked it up off the center of his desk, put it in my pocket. No one noticed."

"I wasn't there."

"No. You were on a mission. If you'd been there, you'd have searched me and called me a thief in front of the entire Order."

"That's not tr…" Snape rolls his eyes. "Fair enough. But you would've deserved it."

"Oh, probably. …I just wanted to do something, you know? I can handle being a target, as long as I'm a moving one. …People are dying, right now, they're out there dying. I'm supposed to be the one to stop it—but no one will tell me how or when or why—you know, never mind, I don't want to talk about this right now. Let's talk about something else. Or do something else."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. Let's play a game."

"Such as?"

"I don't know, anything. Heck, you could even teach me something. Not Potions," he amends.

Two hours later, Potter can sing the song 'Finnegan's Wake' word-perfect—even though the notes tend to shift, those wouldn't matter in a pub.

If they ever see a pub again.


	3. Chapter 3

They do find other games. Or rather, Potter does.

Around mid-afternoon, Snape gets cagey and starts to pace. He has done it since the beginning, ticking away the useless minutes with a brisk walk—for the first half of the walk, he turns right. For the second half, he turns left. Symmetry in everything, even in pacing from one side of the room to the other.

Potter's game goes like this:

Harry watches Snape pace from a reclined position on the bed. Each time Snape paces away from him and cannot see what he is doing, Harry takes a new pose—some silly, some strange, some downright lewd. He has but seconds to change between them. The game ends when Severus stops walking and insults him, stops walking and laughs, or when Harry tackles him.

The tackling evolves into wrestling—the wrestling into groping—so on, so forth.

Snape finds he enjoys this game. Even the loser wins.

XXXXX

They both wake up grumpy one morning. They fight in spectacular fashion about all the old subjects—history, family, friends, physical appearance, lack of experience, etc. When Harry picks up his wand, Severus locks himself in the bathroom.

Of course Harry calms down after a short while and apologizes—he's very sorry, and thus willing to rub feet (or anything else Severus might suggest). 

Severus doesn't hear him, not really. He stares at himself in the mirror over the sink.

When he does emerge, Potter has breakfast laid out neatly. Despite the olive branch, Severus does not feel like making nice. When Harry smiles at him, Severus remembers every nasty thing the idiot child has ever said. He smiles back at Harry, picks up the butter dish, and uses a generous portion of it on his toast.

"I get the message," Harry says, and doesn't try to touch him the rest of the day.

Snape feels awful. He thinks he might have a cold.

XXXXX

He wakes from another nightmare and follows the routine—bathroom, toilet, sink, glass of water, back to bed.

"You'd think Voldemort would have more to do than spend all night giving us bad dreams," Potter murmurs.

"I don't dream about Voldemort," Severus says. "I dream about my father."

XXXXX

He wakes with Harry on top of him.

Severus eases the lightly snoring wizard off him and arranges Potter so that he won't spend the day complaining about a crick in his back.

Harry mutters a bereft little 'umph' and reaches for him again.

"Honestly, Potter," Severus huffs and presses close beside him, "we are not a brightly-colored plush animal."

XXXXX

"You know what I like..? I like this." Harry's fingers circle lower on Snape's abdomen, tracing the line of dark hair that trails from stomach to groin. "This part of you. Your soft underbelly," he snickers.

"Shut up, Potter," Severus groans, too sated to put up a fight. He is aware, in the faintest sense, of having limbs, of breathing in and out.

"Do you know," Potter says, plucking at his stomach, "that when you come, you open your mouth and your tongue hits the back of your teeth, like this?" He demonstrates.

"…No. No, I did not." Severus resolves not to become self-conscious about orgasm.

"…You know what's funny about today?"

"Haven't the faintest."

"It's been a month."

Snape blinks. "…I beg your pardon?"

"It's been a month. Since—you know."

"…Ah."

Harry runs the flat of his palm possessively over Snape's stomach. "I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?"

"It would be difficult for anything—right at this moment—to cause discomfort." Severus flicks a strand of hair out of his eyes and forces himself to smirk. "If you were hinting that we should mark the occasion—I'm afraid I haven't bought you anything."

"You put off going to the shops until the last minute, look what it gets you."

"Locked in a cell with a nymphomaniacal wizard," he says, and shuts his eyes, preparing for a well-earned catnap. "What torture."

Harry burrows underneath the crook of his arm. In sleep, Potter can press so tightly that he wakes Severus up. "…Maybe you're part Veela—and that's why I like touching you so much."

"What are you talking ab—shh."

And then Potter is quiet. For several minutes, he seems to doze. Severus likes these moments—when they are both awake, but feigning sleep. There is something amazingly peaceful and comforting about them.

"Happy anniversary," Harry mutters.

XXXXX

Supper's arrival wakes them. 

"Fish and chips! Brilliant," Harry pronounces. "I swear, Severus, if not for you and the food…"

Maybe it is the offhand, indirect way the compliment is delivered. Maybe it is because Harry is busy with a bottle of ketchup and isn't looking for a response. Or maybe, just maybe, he is ready to believe something good, some small, manageable compliment—like being as brilliant as the food.

XXXXX

The bathtub is an exceedingly good place for thinking. Should he ever find his way out of the room, he resolves to have one installed directly off his office. Possibly in his office—he could disguise it as a modified cauldron. If his office isn't a smoking crater.

Severus dunks his head underneath the water.

The word 'anniversary' has, up until today, meant nothing to Severus. That Potter would even use it—preposterous. Such a formal, proper word—and for what?

A month of fucking.

Sentimental, stupid child. So hungry for a pat on the head, he'd do anything. Anyone.

He is glad Sirius Black is dead. If the bastard hadn't gotten himself killed, he'd be here with Potter. Severus would be somewhere in one of Voldemort's dungeons, most likely, being whipped and beaten and cursed.

The room is small. It smells. It contains a hard, lumpy bed, an uncomfortable chair, a night table, a dresser, a row of pegs, and what few personal objects Severus and Harry were able to shove into their bags in the ten minutes they'd had to pack. He hates it.

He hates the thought of leaving more.

He surfaces with a gasp.

Severus scrubs himself thoroughly—Potter puts his mouth everywhere, cheeky brat. He can't get 'anniversary' out of his head. No one he'd been with before had ever—ever—brought up the word. His parents had never celebrated an anniversary. If they'd marked it's passing, it would be in mourning.

A month of fucking. That's all. Of course a physical attachment was inevitable. But certainly nothing too emotional.

A knock on the bathroom door shakes him from his reverie. "Hey in there! Save some for the fish!"

XXXXX

Severus towels himself off, the cool air turning his skin into a blanket of goosebumps. He gets a strange feeling. Perhaps it is only the cold that makes him skip his pajamas and climb into bed. Yes, the cold. He'll warm up under the covers and then dress.

Minutes pass.

Harry exits the bathroom to the sound of water gurgling down the drain. He clutches the towel around his hips and reaches for—

"Harry."

Potter stills with one hand on the towel and one at his pajamas. He seems wary.

"Wouldn't you rather celebrate?" Snape asks.

"…Don't make fun of me," Potter warns. He doesn't move.

Severus sits up, propping his back against the headboard. Every hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He arches one knee slightly. "I've never had an anniversary."

Potter's eyesight may be poor, but he doesn't seem to leave anything out as he studies Severus' bare chest. "Is this you being seductive?"

He rolls his eyes and drops the pose. "I'd say I was out of practice, but I'm not sure I've ever been in practice. Fine, Potter, good night, then."

"Hang on a minute. No one told you to stop." Harry doesn't take his pajamas off the peg.

At this inopportune moment, Severus' mouth decides to go dry. "H…" He tries to buy himself time by straightening, brushing his hair back. "W…" he chokes out, and loses all vocal control for several moments when Potter lets the towel slide off his hips. His lean silhouette hovers in the circle of red cloth like the embodiment of desire—and then Harry approaches the bed.

"It's cold tonight, don't you think?" he asks, taking off his glasses.

"…We do talk about the temperature far too much."

"We could talk about the food. Or taking baths."

Severus eyes his body and arches a brow. "I didn't know you found baths so stimulating."

Harry shakes his head. "I don't. …Are you wearing anything under there?"

The blanket rides low around Snape's waist. "You could look."

"Do you want me to look?"

Would a small admission hurt? It couldn't hurt that much, could it? "…I wouldn't be averse to it."

The younger wizard crawls onto the foot of the bed, kneeling at Severus' feet. "What are y…?" he begins to ask. Potter twists his fingers in the blanket and pulls it slowly towards him, laying Snape's pale, gaunt body bare.

"You did get me a present," Harry murmurs and eyes Snape's rising erection.

He shifts self-consciously and tries to relax. "Who says it's for you? I might've been in the middle of a lovely wank, for all you know."

"Yeah. Thinking about me." 

"Twice a day isn't enough? I have to fantasize about you now in the four minutes I'm allowed alone?" Severus' breath catches.

Harry presses a kiss on the inside of his bad knee. "Uh-huh. You have to think about me…" Potter licks his inner thigh, tickling the slight amount of hair there. "All the time."

"All the time, hm?" Severus stalls as Potter's mouth creeps upward.

"All the time."

"Then I suppose it is an excellent thing—that I have no distractions." 

Harry moves as if to take Severus in his mouth, but suddenly Severus finds he doesn't want that at all. "Wait," he cries, and draws Harry up to lie beside him. He pulls the blankets over them and sighs as it becomes warmer. "Perhaps—like the first time," he says.

Potter nods and kisses him.

XXXXX

It is hard to sleep.

He cannot relax. They are under attack.

…No. Severus is under attack.

"Do another one."

Green eyes cut too deeply. "Besieged," he tells Potter.

XXXXX

Severus watches Harry have a nightmare. Every time he reaches out to shake the younger wizard awake, he stops.

"…I should let you suffer," he says.

Sometimes Severus believes that within him lives a dark, malicious thing—a thing that enjoys pain, enjoys inflicting it, enjoys witnessing it—and thank Merlin it's never broken Potter's skin—thank Albus it's never laid a wrathful hand on—

"Potter, wake up—wake up. …You were dreaming," he says.

Harry follows his own post-nightmare routine, which involves throwing himself in Severus' arms and riding out the fear. 

Severus tries not to kiss him. It doesn't work.

XXXXX

Fighting is not really fighting. But it is. But it isn't.

"I hate you so much that I would rather stab myself in the eye with this quill than talk to you for another second."

"I hate you so much that I would shave my head and take a seven-year vow of silence rather than speak to you again."

"Oh, yeah?" Potter leaps onto the bed, bouncing on his toes. "Well, I would rather—"

"You're losing it, Potter—"

"Shh, shh—I've got one. I would rather give up Quidditch, move to Azkaban, and set up a kissing booth!" Harry bounces once before jumping off and landing in front of Snape. "Instead of talking to you again. Beat that."

"Very well. I would rather—spell myself until I was a woman, tell the entire student body of Hogwarts to call me Francine, and bear Albus Dumbledore's love child—than speak to you again." He smirks.

"I would rather do everything we have done for the past month and a half—"

Severus grins.

"With Argus Filch. …Than speak to you again."

Snape shivers. "Truly, Potter, you are disgusting."

"Does this mean I win?"

"The more disturbing fact is that we have decided that changing gender and enduring childbirth would be preferable—"

"Don't try to distract me. Come on. Pay up."

"Ugh, no, not now. I have the image burned behind my eyes—"

"When, then? After supper?"

"Yes."

Harry gives him a Cheshire cat smile. "You better make it good."

"It will be better than good, Potter." Severus leans down and whispers in his ear, "I'm going to beg."

XXXXX

Harry begins to leave the door wide open during his bath.

Sometimes Severus finds a reason to walk in and perform some benign task, like brushing his teeth. Or he'll lie on the bed and watch Potter strip. Oddly enough, Harry always manages to perform that particular task in full view of the bedroom.

Severus notes that it is no wonder Potter takes so much longer in the bathroom. He bathes in a very inefficient way—lathering thoroughly and slowly, even standing to bend and reach difficult spots.

Someone really should show him how to do it properly.

XXXXX

One night, Severus enters, brushes his teeth, rinses, and turns to find Potter sprawled in the tub. His glasses lie out of reach on the shelf above with his fluffy red Gryffindor towel, but apparently Harry doesn't need them. His eyes are closed, his right foot hangs out over the edge of the tub, and his pumping fist sloshes the water enough to stir the bubbles and give Severus a glimpse of firm flesh.

His toothbrush clatters in the porcelain basin as he leans against the wall and watches.

After a moment, Harry's eyes slit open and he smiles.

"This smacks of premeditation, Potter."

The smile turns a shade guilty. "What makes you say that?"

"I wasn't assaulted this morning. That either means—one. You are deathly ill. Or two—you planned to make use of my services in some other capacity." Severus folds his arms. "I do hope you realize that there is no way to get me in there with you at the same time—and don't suggest anything up against the wall, I am not slipping in a puddle and cracking my head open—"

"I wasn't going to." Potter's hand eases back and forth, rippling the water.

"What then?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"…All right. I'll be in bed." Severus watches for another long moment and exits the bathroom.

When Potter joins him, the younger wizard has the audacity to go right to sleep.

XXXXX

All things being equal, Severus takes rejection rather well.

He follows the routine.

He wakes, goes to the bathroom, frowns at the mirror, relieves himself, washes his hands and face, brushes his teeth, frowns at himself in the mirror again, brushes his teeth more thoroughly, smoothes out his hair, and goes back to the bedroom where Potter does not have sex with him.

Potter wakes, goes to the bathroom. Severus dresses and then makes the bed. Potter comes out of the bathroom blinking and bleary-eyed and does not have sex with him.

Potter begins his exercises while Snape reads the bloody newspaper again. The full sequence takes two hours and when Potter is done, breakfast has arrived. Snape sets it out and puts the butter dish aside for later use. Potter does not comment. They eat breakfast and Harry does not have sex with him.

Severus paces earlier in the day than usual. Harry does not play the posing game, nor does he offer to have sex with him.

"Are you feeling all right, Potter?"

"Mm-hm," Harry says, and continues to stare at the zooming Quidditch players on the Sports page.

Lunch arrives. It is spaghetti and meatballs. Potter refuses to do anything silly like try and feed him.

Also, they do not have sex.

Severus paces again for a while and then decides to have a nap. To the untrained eye, it might seem like sulking. Potter does not join him.

Supper arrives. They eat in oppressive silence. Severus looks at the butter dish. "You're first in the bath tonight," he says.

"Oh, right."

Potter finishes his food, lounges about on the bed for a moment, then goes to run the bath. Harry hangs his clothes on the peg, enters the bathroom, and shuts the door.

Severus takes his turn and revenges himself on Potter by wanking.

Harry is already asleep when he emerges.

Severus puts the butter dish in the dumbwaiter and slams it shut.

Thump.

XXXXX

He holds out until the doldrums of the next afternoon—the long, interminable stretch between noon and supper. "Why."

"Hm?"

"Don't play bloody games, Potter, though that appears to be your major area of expertise—why?"

"Why what?" he asks.

"Why not—" Severus gesticulates vaguely but wildly until he believes he has conveyed the point.

Harry shrugs and looks down at a book that Severus knows—for a fact!—Potter has no interest in. "Don't know. Didn't think you wanted to. You never ask," Harry declares.

He splutters. "Is that what this is about? Why didn't you sodding well ask me to ask?"

"What's the point in your asking if I have to ask you to ask?"

"I've begged you!"

"Because you lost a game."

"Potter—"

"Harry," he corrects. "And I've decided—you want to—you know—you'll have to ask. I'm tired of feeling like I'm bloody well taking advantage." He flips a page in the book.

Severus blinks. "You… taking advantage… of me."

"You're here to keep me happy and sane, aren't you? I don't want you to do it because of that. If you'll excuse me, I'm in the middle of a chapter." Harry tucks his nose back into the book.

Severus sits down on the bed. He folds his arms and stares at the wall. Every so often, Potter turns a page. "…That book will be here in the morning."

Harry grunts an acknowledgement.

"Granted, so will I." Severus sniffs. He holds perfectly still for several more moments. Then he rises, moves to Potter, tears the book out of his hands, and glares down. "You're not even reading this."

The younger wizard says nothing.

"Oh, fine, Potter, we must do everything your way—Merlin forbid we do not indulge you." Severus arches a brow. "Well, then? Fancy a snog?" He manages a bit of sarcasm, but not very much.

Potter smirks. "You do know—if that's all you ask for, that's all you'll get. You have to be specific."

"Your games are so tiresome—very well, Potter—will you, pretty please, with sugar on top, move toward a state of sexual arousal, remove your clothing, and participate in several acts of spontaneous foreplay before you lubricate and insert your erect penis into my—"

"Not that specific, you prat."

"Oh?" Severus notes that it is impossible to convey nonchalance when furiously undoing buttons.

"'Fuck me' is good enough. Though I did kind of like the 'please.'"

Severus rolls his eyes. "Pretty please, fuck me?"

"All right, sounds good."

XXXXX

Harry wakes him during the long dark. Severus guesses it is about four.

"Severus. I can see my breath."

"It would appear to be, as historians put it, fucking cold."

"We're not going to freeze to death, are we?"

"No. Warming charms, if it gets down to that."

"But then they'll find us."

"But they will not find us in block ice form."

XXXXX

"…I'm so tired of all this waiting—and the quiet—don't you feel like screaming?" 

XXXXX

"The eggs are green. Severus—the eggs are green. What the f…" Harry trails off as Severus steps over to examine the tray.

"Odd. They aren't spoiled. Looks to be some sort of inferior dye—what?"

Potter swallows. "Nothing. I just realized. …It's Christmas."

Green eggs and a sprig of holly decorate breakfast. Luckily, the eggs are edible. Harry goads Severus into at least stretching with him before they take the rest of the day off.

"Off of what?" Severus asks.

XXXXX

Harry tells him—in appallingly graphic detail—about Christmas at the Burrow.

"Sounds ghastly and crowded," he pronounces, though Severus doesn't really mean it.

"What was Christmas like at your house, then?" Harry asks.

"…I spent my holidays at school."

"Yeah, me too, but before that—"

"I spent them at school."

"Yeah, when you were eleven, but before… oh."

"Yes. At school. And I preferred it to returning home. Don't look at me like that—I imagine all your early Christmases involved being thrown out of bed to cook and clean for those beastly muggles."

Harry nods mutely. The gloom forces Severus to recount the events of his first Christmas at Hogwarts, which was actually—and he only remembers this as he is telling it—quite nice. He'd been caught wandering the hallways after curfew—

"Hypocrite!"

"Quiet, Potter—" and had been taken to the Headmaster's office, where the great white wizard had served him tea instead of punishment. 

XXXXX

Lunch arrives—ham, potatoes, gravy, greens, and a small slice of fruitcake—with both apple cider and tea to drink.

"Do you know any wizarding Christmas songs?"

Severus only dares to sing because Potter has such a terrible voice.

Harry sips his cider. "Hate to tell you this—'Here We Come A'Wassailing' isn't a wizarding song."

"Never learned a song you couldn't sing in pub. Other than what the school made us learn, anyhow."

"Why not?"

"What would be the point? Have you ever been to a pub?"

"Yes," Harry says, narrowing his eyes, "I have. Been with Ron a few times."

"…You ever fancy Weasley?"

"Not really. He was my first real friend—by the time I realized I preferred blokes, he was like—my brother. And he's straight. And head over heels in love with Hermione. So it wasn't really an issue. I like your shoulders," he adds.

Severus is used to this sort of non sequitur.

"That last bloke you were with… did you love him?" Harry asks.

"…We were quite suited for each other. Both from respectable families that wanted nothing but for us to remain discreet, we both read far too much—he worked in a library—special collections, books that would bite and curse—he used to sneak me the particularly nasty ones."

"…I'm sorry it—didn't work out."

He shrugs. "I'm rather glad it ended when it did. If a man is too cowardly to—it would've been dangerous for both of us. …Anyway, he was a terrible kisser."

"I'm not, am I?"

"Always, he requires reassurance," Severus grumbles good-naturedly and presses his lips to the corner of Harry's jaw.

"Always, he refuses to address the real question," Harry challenges, and that pretty much takes care of the rest of the afternoon.

XXXXX

Supper is accompanied by red and green napkins, two tiny boxes of chocolates, eggnog, and a small card that reads—"Happy Christmas. We appreciate your patronage," Harry reads. "Well, that settles it. It's a meal service."

"Pity. Removes all the mystique."

They eat and drink eggnog and lie on the bed staring at the ceiling. 

"This is nice."

Severus smirks, then realizes he is the one who said it.

XXXXX

"This doesn't hurt your knee, does it?"

"It's fine," Severus whispers. His legs hook over Harry's arms. "I'm not fragile."

"If you don't want to, tell me to stop and we'll do it the other way."

He shakes his head and is distracted for a moment by how much longer his hair has grown. Then Harry positions himself, urging Severus' hips up as he sinks inside. They both still for a moment. In the beginning, Severus needed the time to adjust. Now, he uses it to luxuriate in the oddly complete feeling. Face to face, the angle is a bit different. Might take some getting used to.

"Open your eyes," Harry says.

He does.

XXXXX

"Just do it already," Potter pants and rubs his face against the pillow.

"We're on my timetable, remember."

"Please," he cries, his hips humping against the mattress. "Need to come."

"Stop." Potter yelps at the light swat—but Severus has decided that turnabout is definitely fair play. He slides his fingers just a bit deeper, slicking and stretching as much as possible. Harry responds with a groan. "You don't want this to hurt, do you?"

"You won't hurt me," Harry moans.

"That is the general idea."

"I'm ready—you're only doing this to torture me."

"You asked for it, Potter."

"If you call me Potter while you've got your cock up my arse, I will slug you."

Snape eases his fingers out. He pauses momentarily to wipe his hand, and then to slick himself. "All right, Harry. Obedient, when you want to be," he adds, snorting as Harry spreads his legs a bit further apart.

"When I have incentive."

He strokes the pale, milky skin, petting the tension out of Harry's lower back. The younger wizard moans and clutches the pillow tightly. "Try and relax," Severus breathes.

"Easy for you to say. You're not—ohh." 

Severus feels like an indelicate creature—he feels heavy and rough—the head of his prick is far too large, isn't slick enough to enter gently. He presses at the tiny pucker and tries to ignore Harry's inarticulate whimpers. And then Potter pushes back, forcing the head through the ring of muscle.

"More," Harry whines, "I can—take more." They both pant as Severus pushes in, sinking to the hilt.

"All right?" he asks, trying to hold still.

"Hnh—all right." Harry nods.

They move together, a slow rocking motion. Severus snakes a hand around Harry's waist, grasping his slightly wilted erection and coaxing it back to hardness. He hears pleasure creep into harsh, labored breaths and Severus nearly crows his delight—he wants Harry to like this, to like him. He wants to make Harry happy—he wants Harry to roll over and kiss him and tell him it was amazing—he wants Harry to try and feed him at lunch—he wants to have ridiculous fights where one of them ends up pinned against the wall—

"I love you," Severus gasps, driving into Harry as deeply as he can. He pumps into the tight heat, swelling even further. "I love you," he repeats, and loses himself in rhythm and warmth, coming in long, slow spurts.

Potter needs only another minute of encouragement before he jerks hard in Severus' grip and comes, wailing his approval.

They collapse on the bed together, still joined.

Harry laughs.

Severus doesn't mind it anymore—it's never about him—and anyway, he feels like sleeping for a year.

XXXXX

Breakfast.

He explains to Potter that what is said during the, ahem, act—should not, in fact, be taken as gospel. He explains that what one says during the, ah, heat of the moment—really cannot—

"Severus."

He stops.

"It's okay. I love you, too," Harry says, puts more jam on his toast, and pours another cup of tea.

XXXXX

Time passes.

It feels like years but must be days—though Severus, for the sake of his own sanity, has stopped counting.

Sometimes he gets sick of even looking at Harry. Sometimes it is all he wants to do.

"I miss Quidditch."

"I miss detention."

"Sadist. Speaking of which, I want you to bite me next time. You haven't done that lately."

"…How long have you been waiting for that segue?"

"…Little while. Don't look at me like I'm weird. You're the one who does the biting—that's at least as screwed up as wanting to be bit. Bitten," he corrects.

XXXXX

"…We're never getting out of here."

"Nope," Harry agrees, "we'll be here until old age. You think it smells in here now, wait until one of us dies."

"Don't be macabre."

"Say that one again."

"No. …Macabre."

XXXXX

Severus eats one of the chocolate biscuits sent with lunch and tries not to think of Albus.

"The real question," Harry says, "is this… When will the hot water completely stop? It's got to be soon."

He nods a yes and absently rubs his arm.

"Not that there's much we can do about it. But I figure—we might be able to risk a self-renewing warming charm. The plus is that we only have to cast it once, the minus is that it will take longer."

"And if we do it incorrectly, we bake to death."

"Yeah, there's that too. But we're rough and tumble wizards—we can handle it. And it's not like we can ignore the problem much longer… Severus? …Are you okay?"

"I'm not very hungry," he says, puts half a biscuit down on the tray, and crumples into a heap.

XXXXX

"Please be something for a sick person, be something for a sick person," Harry chants.

Severus hears the dumbwaiter hatch open.

"Soup! Soup and sandwiches—Severus, you think you can manage a little soup?"

He opens his mouth to ask what kind. Nothing comes out.

"Here. We'll get you propped up—have my pillow, too—okay. Can you try and eat?"

The soup is tomato. Harry feeds him one shallow spoonful at a time. He doesn't feel hungry, or nauseous, really—only tired.

"You want to try and sleep some more?" Harry kisses him and takes away the tray.

"Mm-hm." Severus smiles a little. No one is ever nice to him when he is sick. 

XXXXX

Harry sits on the edge of bed, his wand and head in his hands.

"Harry?" Severus asks.

"I can't break the wards," he chokes out. "That absolute bastard. I can't break the wards."

XXXXX

"Wake up, Severus. There's orange juice from breakfast, there's tea. Don't know if you want to try the roast beef, but if you want there's toast left. You want to try the toast?"

He nods.

"Marmalade?"

"Yes, thank you."

"It's going to be all right, okay? You know that, don't you? It's going to be okay. This is probably—food poisoning, or—it was probably that quiche we had, remember, I thought it smelled off and gave mine to you? You'll be fine."

XXXXX

Severus wakes up.

He is warm. The room does not smell. On the night table sits a pot of tea, spout steaming merrily.

For a moment, he thinks he has died.

The chair has been pulled close. Harry dozes in it, clutching the newspaper in one hand and his wand in the other. 

"Potter."

Harry wakes with a start. "Oh—you're up. Sorry, I—"

"Magic…?" he asks.

"We were past due for a warming charm—and—look, I already put out the magical equivalent of a neon sign trying to bust the wards, so I thought—I thought we might as well be clean and comfortable."

"Voldemort—"

"I know, I know—but—there's nothing—I'm not going to let you get any sicker."

"No, Potter. It's Voldemort," Severus says with some effort. He extends his arm. Harry seizes it and pulls up the sleeve, revealing the swollen Dark Mark.

"I don't understand. He can't attack you this way. He can't find you—he can't hurt you. The scattering charms—you're protected from—"

"It doesn't hurt." Severus shakes his head. He is tired, so tired of talking. He wants to have a cup of tea and go back to sleep. "Albus did what he could, but he could not destroy the mark."

"I don't understand."

"This is not a move against me, specifically," he says, his vision swimming with strange, ghostly images. "He's getting ready for battle. He is draining and absorbing his entire outer circle." Severus sees Potter's lips curled back in a furious sob. "There is still—a link, you see. …It doesn't hurt."

"Will he kill you?"

"He will take what he can. I do not imagine he will leave much behind." His eyelids feel very heavy. "It doesn't hurt," he promises.

"This isn't fair," Harry cries, crawling onto the bed and burying his face in the older wizard's chest. "He's not allowed to have you. He takes everyone—he's not allowed to have you—he's not allowed to take anyone else. He is not allowed to have you!"

"I'm sorry," Severus says.

XXXXX

He wakes up in agony, his pulse pounding in his temples. He is tired, so tired, and now that it hurts he can feel the magic leaving him, running out of him like blood from a wound. "Help me," he pleads, wondering why it hurts so much—it shouldn't hurt.

"I will," chimes a voice in his ear.

Now Severus can feel more magic, this time being poured into him—but it pours out, too, like sand through a sieve. "No—don't—not yours. He'll only take it—"

"That isn't my magic."

Severus opens his eyes. He sees the ceiling—and also a field, plumes of colored smoke, a castle—Hogwarts. "What are you doing?"

"He is not allowed to have you," Harry says, pushing more energy into him, faster and faster. "He takes everyone I love, everyone, and he thinks he can do it again—but I'm not going to let him. Not this time."

His vision clouds over—curses hit their targets, goblins swarm a charging manticore—"How are you—what are you—"

"A link doesn't work one way, Severus—you've got a link to him, he's got a link to me, and I've got a link to you."

"You're stealing his magic," Severus gasps. He sees—he sees what the Dark Lord sees, sees Voldemort falter in his advance. The magic pours out now at a trickle, but pours in like a waterfall.

"I'm taking yours back."

"No, you're—" Severus writhes along with Harry as Voldemort makes his anger felt. Sharp bolts of pain slice through the links, but the attack feels weak to Severus. He can see Voldemort kneeling in the dirt, shouting orders to his Lieutenants, and suddenly the Potions Master knows that this battle is not a slaughter—Hogwarts still stands, the front lines must be close—

Harry cries out—

And Severus reaches out through the link. He tastes copper in his mouth and folds his energy around the curse, around Voldemort's presence in the link, and clamps down, screaming like man who has stopped a sword blade with his bare hands.

There are no more sounds, no more visions, only magic pouring in and the full weight of Severus' hate pouring out, scissoring through the link and into the Dark Lord's mind. He batters at the shields there, cutting and scraping and prying—anything to distract him from the battle, to distract him from Harry—and when Voldemort fixes his slitted inner eyes on Severus, the snarky, sniveling Occlumens that had once cowered before him turns all his rage into an edge and stabs it home.

Voldemort severs the link.

Severus blinks and gasps. He tries to sit up in the bed, but can't. He feels physically exhausted, but magically—

Another flood of energy pushes into him. Severus turns his head.

Harry trembles and clutches his wand in both hands. "I can get more of it," his voice rasps. "I can try and get more of it. He's—he's wounded. Not only by you—before. He's weak—if I keep going—help me."

"How?"

"Hold on to me," he says. Severus heaves himself onto his side and wraps an arm around Harry's waist. "I'm taking as much of it as I can—but I don't think I can hold it all. I'm a little scared," he confesses. "I don't know if I can—"

"We don't know where or when or how. You don't have to kill him tonight."

"I'm going to try."


	4. Chapter 4

Epic battles should not be so very quiet.

Sweat pours down Harry's face. Severus blotted it at first; now he spells it away. Lifting a finger demands more energy than casting.

Severus' wand lies under the night table. He doesn't need it anymore.

"Water?" Harry does not give him an answer, so Severus levitates a cup to his lips. A few sips are swallowed.

The minutes are silent.

"Get ready," Harry whispers. Another wave of magic crushes Severus—it is like being forced underwater and held for too long—he thinks he hears a voice and it sounds like the Dark Lord and it sounds like his father and fuck oh my fucking God please let me up I can't breathe—

XXXXX

When Severus was six, they'd all gone to the seashore.

It was summer, but unseasonably cool. The water was black and choppy. His mother kept her hair tied in a scarf and sat on the beach.

Children must know how to swim.

But he was afraid. The water was so dark.

"Severus—get back here—get—" There was a hand on his head and on his neck—"If this is the only way he'll learn—"

His mother stared up at the sky and said nothing at all.

XXXXX

He rolls over and spits blood onto the floor. It is very red—a stain the color of the stripe on a peppermint stick. "…Harry?" He falls back onto the bed and turns to look.

Potter is drenched and shaking. He wears a wild, terrified smile and, for a split second, their eyes meet. "…Okay?" he pants.

"Fine. You?" Snape becomes very conscious of his own lower lip. 

"Great," Harry says. His fingers rip at the bedclothes as he struggles. "This is—easy."

"Easy." Severus tries to laugh. Air whistles out of his lungs in short, sharp bursts.

"Nhn—just like—you taught me."

I never taught you this, he thinks, and tries not to wonder where the blood is welling inside him—if some vital part has snapped under the convulsions, a tether stretched too far—"Harry—"

The water surges over his head.

XXXXX

He couldn't figure out another way—not without being seen.

Of course it had to be raining. Of fucking course every slippery patch of earth would turn into a neck-breaking mud hole—of course he couldn't see branches whipping at his hair and face—but he was so numb from the cold that he hadn't felt it—not until he had reached the entrance—not until he had staggered up the steps—not until he had collapsed at the stone gargoyle and noticed a trail of slime following—

The serpent crawling out of the deep.

And then impossibly strong arms had lifted him, paying no heed to the dripping mud, and brought him inside.

"Dear boy… thank goodness you've come home."

XXXXX

Severus wakes. He puts one foot on the floor, then the other, and stands. The bathroom is very far away.

One foot in front of the other—good.

He relieves himself, washes, rinses the copper taste out of his mouth, coughs, and does not look in the mirror. He coughs again—pink flecks the basin.

"Harry." 

Severus shuffles out of the bathroom. He knows he often complains to Potter about his age, but now, right now, he feels the weight of every miserable day.

A prone form lies on the bed.

"Harry."

"Harry."

"Potter."

"Wake up."

He falls back into the bed without getting an answer. He winces at the dampness—sweat, and other things he doesn't want to think about—and waves his hand. The cleansing spell works without a word. Severus feels the harsh crackle of magic. "…Harry."

He knew, months ago, that this would end badly. He knew it the night they arrived. He knew it the first time he got hard thinking about Potter's mouth. He knew it the night they became lovers.

We were lovers, weren't we, Severus thinks. "Harry."

He doesn't want to look. He doesn't want to look—he cannot look. He decides he would rather be trapped in his moment forever and ever, he would rather spend the rest of his life terrified, rather than look. "…Harry."

A snore splits the silence.

Air rushes out of Severus' lungs. He looks.

Harry's eyelashes rest on his cheeks. The color has gone out of him—even out of the scar. He is turned towards Severus with both arms raised to cover his chest as if warding off a blow. Now Severus cannot help reaching out, taking his pulse. A spark snaps between them. His pulse is strong.

"You manipulative little shit," Severus grunts. He checks Harry for any sign of physical damage and finds only half-moon cuts on his palms from clenched fists. "Harry…" The younger man does not stir. But he does breathe in and out in a deep, reassuring rhythm. "All right, don't wake up. See if I care. Always, we must indulge…" Just making it to the bathroom and back has left him exhausted. Severus crawls back into bed and closes his eyes—just for a minute.

XXXXX

Severus wakes.

He goes to the bathroom, relieves himself, washes, brushes, and runs his fingers through his hair.

Everything hurts.

He exits the bathroom, dresses, and takes …lunch out of the dumbwaiter. Sandwiches and potato soup gone cold.

"Potter. Wake up. Potter. …Potter."

He eats a sandwich. Something with meat in it. He chews, but can't seem to note more than the texture. He coughs, and tastes just a tiny amount of blood.

He wishes he knew what was wrong. A cut, a scrape, a bruise—he could treat those himself. But internal injuries are best left to a mediwitch with the proper equipment, or at least some sort of experience avoiding major nerve damage. And if something has… come apart… at least he doesn't seem to be hemorrhaging.

Neither does Potter. He checks again, just to make sure. Harry seems deeply asleep.

Severus is a man of great patience. He endured his home, he endured the gauntlet that was primary school, experienced a brief reprieve at Hogwarts before it too beat him, enslaved himself to the Dark Lord, and then ransomed his shriveled soul back by going into service for the Order. He has survived the room for—how long has it been? Six months? Seven? More?

Severus has been waiting for a rescue all his life.

It never comes.

He coughs.

XXXXX

The wards do not give.

Severus tries. The magic comes more easily than it ever has. When he picks up his wand, the shock of power stings his hand. Still, the wards do not give. If they had weeks—if they had known—if—

Voldemort must know that they are here. He must. He must be coming—unless Harry has done it. Or if the Dark Lord is too weak—or perhaps Albus has them hidden so cleverly that not even constant use of their magic—

Severus glances at his arm. The mark is fading into gray. If Voldemort has cut him off, perhaps he has done the same to Harry, perhaps they are both free—free, and in a cage—but Albus will be coming for them now, now that Voldemort can't find them, there will be no reason to keep them—

—No.

There is no telling what has happened. No telling, and to dwell on it would be futile. Twiddling thumbs never managed to save Severus before. He is coughing blood—and he can't wake Potter. "Harry?" He doesn't really expect a response. Waiting is no longer an option.

There is the dumbwaiter.

When the rubbish goes in, it must come out somewhere. Most likely into the hands of an innocent house elf working for the meal service—or a witch or wizard. He could send a letter—

Which would promptly be ignored—or worse—turned over to the Ministry.

Severus shudders. If he wanted Voldemort's entire force at his doorstep, he would've stayed at the castle. They might be in transit now, he thinks. He could send instructions along with a sealed letter to have it owled to—

No telling if owls even get through to Hogwarts under siege. No telling if anyone is even alive to help them—if Voldemort has slaughtered them all and they are the only ones left—

Severus wishes he were an Animagus. Pettigrew could hop right into the little box—

But would have a difficult time closing it. A larger animal, a monkey perhaps, or a small dog—

"What am I thinking?" Sticking himself with a simian brain and prehensile tail—those were the nicer things that might happen if he botched it. And he'd never been a master at Transfiguration. He barely managed an E on his NEWT—if he tried to Transfigure the dumbwaiter larger, odds were he would break the transportation charm—and wouldn't that be the spice in the stew, cutting off their food supply. Who knew how Albus had even managed to rig the charm to bypass the wards?

Severus rests his eyes for a moment.

"My kingdom for a shrinking potion."

XXXXX

He paces. It hurts, but the hurt helps, strangely.

Albus would not do this, he thinks. Albus would not leave us trapped. There must be—some way—

Severus knows his own valise is empty, but Potter's case—where did he—

He finds both bags wedged underneath the bed. He checks his own. A few spare pieces of parchment, empty bottles from all the painkillers and numbing draughts he'd brought and used in the first weeks, two spare sets of robes that were worn until the smell became overpowering, other assorted bits. He leans all the way in and rummages some more, just to be sure, but the verdict stands. Useless. He shoves the valise aside and drags the other bag into the middle of the floor. 

Potter's case is wide, battered, and brown. Severus kneels next to it and looses the clasp. "Please," he begs, "let Albus have hidden something. A portkey. The key to the wards. Anything. Please." Severus opens the bag.

He stares.

After a time, he looks up at Potter.

He glances down into the case.

Glances up.

Down again.

Slowly, he removes the broom and the invisibility cloak from the enlarged depths.

He laughs—once.

"This is what you bring—to a two-room cell. This is what you bring. …Where are you going to fly, Potter? Who are you going to sneak past? Oh—if the wards can't see us, maybe they'll let us out. Perhaps we could best the wards in a Quidditch match! …This is what you bring." Severus turns over the cloak in his hands. The gossamer garment smells musty. "We'll be buried with them."

He peers in again. He blinks. He pauses.

Potter's case.

Severus grabs it, rushes to the dumbwaiter, opens the hatch, and puts it—puts it—

Too wide.

He tries tilting it, tries getting it to fold a bit.

…No good.

Severus groans. Too wide. Too bloody wide. He tosses the case aside, coughs, and rests his head on the wall. Well, at least he could safely try and transfigure the suitcase—

The valise.

He retrieves and opens the smaller bag. Inside—maybe... He upends the bag, shaking out its contents onto the floor. One of the bottles shatters, but he pays it no attention. The black bag was originally spelled large enough to contain an entire set of basic potions, a rack of common ingredients, and a set of reference texts—he'd only used the valise off and on since studying for his certification. It had to be dumb luck that he'd used it to pack that night.

Severus lifts the valise and wedges it into the dumbwaiter.

It fits.

XXXXX

There were days when Severus lamented being such a dedicated student. There were days when he watched others heading out to parties—days when they staggered back home just as he was leaving in the morning. There were days when he sneered at their childish behavior but at the same time wondered if he wasn't missing something.

This makes up for it.

Severus props Potter in the chair. He strips the blankets from the bed and lines the bottom of the valise, considers, adds Potter's pillow, then adds Potter. The squeeze is only tight around Harry's shoulders getting him in; once he is in the valise, he almost has the room to lie flat. Severus takes care to arrange him. 

He adds the invisibility cloak, tucking it around Harry. 

Severus picks up the valise and sets it in the dumbwaiter with the mouth of the bag facing outward. Climbing inside is awkward; he goes feet first and is nearly stuck twice—perhaps he has put on a bit of weight—though with Harry putting him through his paces twice a day, he doesn't see how it could be possible.

Finally, he wriggles inside. Any way he maneuvers, he is pressed close to Harry. Not that he minds being close to Harry, but being this close and inside his own luggage is both surreal and claustrophobic. 

"You'd laugh at this," Severus says. He kisses Harry once, softly, and then nips at his lower lip. He wishes this were a fairy tale. In a fairy tale, Harry would wake. In fairy tales, there wouldn't be blood in his mouth.

The older wizard snakes his hand out of the bag and feels for the edge of the hatch. He grasps it between his fingers and pulls it down, down—

Thump.

XXXXX

It doesn't feel quite like a portkey.

It feels like his uncle, the one whose name he cannot remember, the one he would always try to hide from during the summer holidays, the one who came to visit his father, the one who would swing Severus up into the air and keep swinging until he begged to be let down.

Severus is not frightened.

Not frightened.

…not frightened…

XXXXX

Everything is dark. Severus tucks the cloak around Potter and keeps his eyes open.

The moment lights hits him, Severus scrambles forward and thrusts his hand out to block any attempt to close the hatch again. In another moment his head is free of the bag.

Severus finds himself considerable nose to small, buttony nose—with a house elf.

The creature lifts his eyebrows. Her eyebrows. Severus can never tell the things apart.

It dribbles at him.

Severus wriggles until his other arm is free, reaches out, and grabs the thing by the throat. It squeaks. "Where are we?" Severus asks.

The house elf sputters something unintelligible. So Severus squeezes—just a little. "Where is this place?" He lets go, then, and the house elf falls back onto its rump, boo-hooing.

"Boggsy is to be fetching the dishes—"

"Oh, shut up," he growls, fighting his way out of the bag and onto the floor of a large, well-lit kitchen. A row of six other dumbwaiters stretch on either side. The scents of grease and baking bread assault his nostrils. Sunlight streams in from wide, round windows. It seems impossibly bright.

Severus blinks and takes his feet. Thankfully, this section of the kitchen appears to be under the solitary care of Boggsy. He quickly lifts the bag out of the dumbwaiter, checks on Potter, snaps the valise shut, and clutches the bag to his chest. "Where is this place?"

The creature gibbers. Snape grabs it by the pillowcase and yanks it upright.

"Listen, you half-wit! Either tell me where I am," Severus growls, "or I find you a sock."

XXXXX

The elf lies on the ground, stupefied. Snape isn't sure he actually had to use the spell.

He thinks of the invisibility cloak in the valise, but leaves it where it is. He has to hunch and move slowly to remain completely obscured while wearing it, and as he doesn't imagine Albus would hire Voldemort to serve their food, he would rather remain visible and attempt to get the attention of the nearest viable source of information.

XXXXX

Three shrieking witches and three sleeping spells later, he locates a newspaper and stares at the date with his mouth open.

It cannot be the end of February.

Severus sits at a table to steady his legs, skims the headlines—attack at St. Mungo's, attack at the Ministry, a picture of Hogwarts with smoke pluming from the south tower. He then notices the well-read corners of the paper—much like the one he and Harry read over and over.

"…Oh, perfect," he drawls, just as disoriented as before. He wishes it were night. His eyes feel sensitive, even inside the strange kitchen. He flips open the clasp on the valise. "Well, Potter, you'll be pleased to learn that, as of February the 23rd, Hogwarts was still standing. Whether it is now remains to be seen—and we shall see it. If you have any suggestions as to an alternative—another secure location with a mediwitch, perhaps—now would be the time to make them. …No? Hogwarts it is, then."

Severus removes the invisibility cloak and makes sure Harry's head is on the pillow before he closes the valise again.

Hogwarts has to be standing. If not…

He fixes the invisibility cloak around his shoulders, cradles the bag to his chest, and takes a deep breath. He coughs.

He breathes, but more shallowly.

He closes his eyes.

Apparating is easy. Easy as breathing. Snape has never been splinched in his entire life—he passed the test on the first try.

"Just do it," he chides himself. "Do it."

XXXXX

"Are we afraid?"

"…No, my Lord. I give of myself willingly."

His heart beats. Once. Twice.

"You call me your Lord and serve only yourself. I will not forget it. Kneel."

"My Lord—humbly I beg your f—"

"Crucio," the Dark Lord said, and watched with some small amusement as his servant writhed on the ground below the dais.

XXXXX

The Forest feels dead.

Normally, it has a pulse—the pounding of hooves, the clacking of jaws, odd hoots and hisses.

Severus wonders when the world became so quiet. It is dark, though, under the canopy, and that is a small blessing.

He moves quickly, but not as quietly as he would prefer—he hasn't run in months, and his chest rattles. There are creatures in the forest that do not hunt by sight, and ill-fitting invisibility cloaks do not fool them.

He keeps his wand at the ready and traces the path unconsciously. Snape knows it forward, backward, wet, dry, blind, cursed, and yes, bleeding—

—Quiet—

—and the stink of—

"Ugh," Severus groans and leans heavily against a tree trunk. His eyes keep closing. "Wake up… fool."

XXXXX

Evening turns the canopy black as ink.

Severus snaps awake at a slight tugging on his shoe. Something small, fuzzy, and brown is trying to claim it. He kicks at it and draws his foot back under the cloak. 

"We can't sleep here," he mutters to the valise, and lumbers to his feet. His body has given up the fight—Severus lists and lurches, tripping and stumbling over stones and holes. "We cannot sleep here," he repeats over and over—

And suddenly he stands at the edge of what could not be—no—could not be the remains of the cheerful green lawn. He sees mud and craters and scorch marks and—in the distance—

Aurors.

XXXXX

He surrenders his wand. Detection spells are performed. A soft, familiar voice asks him question after question. Severus answers with as much sarcasm and annoyance as he can muster.

"I think it's really him—I think it's him."

"It is him."

Someone tries to take the valise out of his hands. Severus can hardly keep his eyes open, but his spell knocks the Auror flat.

"Uh… Professor? Please don't fight the Aurors. It's been a rough week."

Severus' vision clears. "…Longbottom."

The pudgy wizard flinches and risks a shaky smile. "Hullo, Professor."

"They didn't make you an Auror."

"N-no, sir. I help with the plants, most of the time. They've been trying to sneak a double past us for ages and ages. But I can always tell whether or not it's you. Oh… he's bleeding," Neville nods to one of the other Aurors. "The infirmary?"

"No, please, let us all pop 'round to the Quidditch pitch, have a quick match." Severus does not struggle when he is lifted.

"Your bag, Professor?"

"Goes to the Headmaster himself, Madam Pomfrey," he coughs, then adds, "or Lupin." Lupin would be all right, he thinks. He wouldn't trust the werewolf with his own life, but he'd take care of Harry.

Recognition flickers on Longbottom's face. He glances at the valise, then barks at the Aurors. "Find Remus—he should be in his rooms—or try the Great Hall." Three of them immediately scurry towards the castle.

"Since when," Snape wheezes, "do they follow your orders?"

Neville blinks, then sucks in a breath. "Since Malfoy," he says softly, and turns to the others. "Let's get him to the infirmary."

XXXXX

Poppy stands over him. She puts a vial to his lips. He swallows.

"Welcome back," she says.

Severus sinks into sleep.

XXXXX

They rouse him for tests and potions.

"Is he dead?" Severus asks.

"Dead?" Poppy echoes.

"Voldemort."

"Oh. Oh, yes, Severus," Madam Pomfrey laughs. "Dear me—I th—oh, never you mind. One minute he's leading the attack, the next, he's on the ground. They had to pull back—tried, at any rate. Turned the tide of the battle—I suppose that was Harry?"

Severus nods.

"We all hoped so. War isn't over, unfortunately; we're still chasing down his lieutenants. But we're going to win. Don't you trouble yourself until you're well enough." Madam Pomfrey's fingers flicker across his arm.

Severus glances down. The Dark Mark is flaking, peeling off like old paint.

"All right, now, here's the last of it. I always warned you, didn't I, prolonged exposure to Cruciatus—"

"It wasn't Cruciatus."

"Well, whatever it was, you're safe with us now. Open. You'll have to make a full report tonight, so be sure and rest up."

"…How is H—Potter?"

"Much like someone else I know, he is a very resilient man." She pours the vial into his mouth.

"Gryffindor," Severus mutters, and drops into a dreamless sleep.

XXXXX

He wakes. He is fed. He is tested. He is scanned. He demands and receives the right to use the toilet alone. He is tested again. He is given a cup of tea—he drinks it and, a second too late, detects the burn of Veritaserum.

When Poppy is satisfied with his condition, the Aurors escort him from bed. They march him for ages and ages, and finally take him into a crowded room. When Severus has to shield his eyes, they dim the lights.

The witch before him wears her silver hair down. It is grayer than Albus', and not as thick. "Severus. If you are ready, we will begin."

XXXXX

He tells Minerva everything.

Arriving. The way Harry would refuse to speak, the way he spent half the night crying, the way he would put his fists on the walls and lean into them—as if to push through, out. Waking. Eating. Sleeping. Taking baths every evening.

The debriefing is difficult—captivity is not like—it is not—

"Calm down, Severus. We have time."

It is not a series of events. It is—it—there are pieces. Pieces of conversation, strange looks, the routine and whether or not it is kept. Exercises. Pacing. Reading the paper. Writing.

"You kept a journal, Severus? Excellent, I should very much—"

No, no, not a journal. There was nothing to chronicle. Nothing but the routine—

"Then what did you write?"

Nothing of import—musings, nonsense, dreams—

"Your scars, tell me—when did they begin to—"

No, there are no dates. Potter kept track of time.

"Why didn't you?"

Because Potter did! Albus never said there would be an exam—

"Very well, Severus, if you could take us through—chronologically—to the best of your ability—what happened when Voldemort—"

Severus stands. He wants to pace. They've chosen a small, windowless classroom, possibly the one Sprout used on the rare class days without practical demonstrations—Severus can't tell. More people join them as the interrogation goes on. Minerva, Tonks, Mad Eye Moody with an arm off, Shacklebolt, several Aurors whose names he remembers vaguely—Spidrel, Marsh, Antonelli—and, of course, the werewolf.

He tells them all of it—the weakness, the blood, the visions. When he is done, McGonagall returns to the beginning and goes back over everything he has said. It is hard not to snap, but he repeats it all again.

(All of the relevant parts, at least. It seems a bit incongruous for Severus to blurt, 'Oh, and then he fucked me.' And after all—he is not asked for that kind of information.)

"…Is there anything else you'd like to add, Severus?"

He swallows. "I don't believe so."

They officially adjourn, though Tonks and Shacklebolt force him through another round of questions. Did they think he would suddenly switch stories? Did they all still refuse to believe he was working for Albus?

"This is ridiculous—I realize he must be an extremely busy man at this particular moment, but I must speak with the Headmaster," Snape demands.

The room goes very still. In the end, it is Minerva who rises.

"Severus… Albus has passed."

XXXXX

How melodramatic he has become. It must be Potter's fault.

Severus goes back to his bed without argument. He eats the food they put forward mechanically.

Poppy comes in and speaks to him at length.

"Ah," he says.

XXXXX

He wakes. He feels…

He is tired of feeling. Let his heart be cut out—let the house elves take it away. It is a maddening, useless thing—and far more trouble than it is worth.

He rises. He lurches to the bathroom, and nearly crashes into the sink. There is no bathtub. Severus relieves himself, scrubs at his face with a raspy bar of soap, then casts a cleaning charm when he remembers magic is allowed again.

There is a mirror above the sink.

A strange, tired-looking old man stares back at him. The old man's hair is shot with threads of silver.

Albus is dead.

Severus lurches back to his bed. He misses his old pillow. This one doesn't smell right.

XXXXX

He wakes. He is fed. Minerva talks to him at great length. She is full of hows and wheres and whys and Severus thinks he is going to be sick all over himself.

"I am tired," he says. "Get out."

XXXXX

"I have now read the newspaper one hundred times. That includes the advertisements. I am about to start bleeding from my eyeballs."

"Please, don't," Severus mumbled. "The duvet has suffered enough."

"…You've got underarm hair," Potter said.

He cracked an eyelid. "…Yes?"

"You have underarm hair. It's weird, how you're a person. I mean—that you brush your teeth and go to the bathroom and… it's all so normal. I used to imagine you rising from your coffin."

"I am not a vampire."

"It was fun to think about."

"Return my arm, please. …Thank you."

Potter shifted. "I fucked you."

"Yes..?" And?

"Are you going to fuck me?"

"Don't be tiresome, Potter. Go to sleep."

"Because I think it's only fair. You should—I mean—of course you should. If you want. …Only, it's interesting—how—you're Professor Snape. With underarm hair. And I fucked you." Potter let out a breath. "It's the most amazing thing."

"Glad you're enjoying yourself. Let an old man rest."

"No—what—I'm trying to say is—is that it's strange. Some people are—I don't know—they don't seem quite human-and suddenly one day they've got hair under their arms. It's strange."

"You're strange. Go to sleep."

XXXXX

He rolls over and coughs, but now the cough is dry and hacking.

They were supposed to have tea. When it was all over. When Voldemort was dead, they were going to have tea. He'd pictured it a thousand times.

The Headmaster would sit behind his desk and offer Severus more sugar, putting in an extra cube anyway when it was declined. He would smile, flash those twinkling eyes of his, and he would say, "Well done, Severus. We couldn't have pulled through without you."

Severus would drink the too sweet tea and thank the Headmaster. He'd say something about how glad he was that it was over, how they'd both worked so hard.

Albus would ask him what he planned to do with the rest of his life.

Sometimes his answer would be a punch line—sometimes he'd say he didn't have a clue.

Then they'd laugh.

XXXXX

Poppy wakes him. He is fed. She helps him to the bathroom, but he leaves her outside the door. He relieves himself, is halfway through washing when he switches to cleaning spells, and stares at that odd, old man for a while.

She walks him back to the bed, asks if he understands—

"That Albus is dead. Yes. I understand."

Yes, but also—

"Potter is in a coma."

Poppy is kind. He thinks mediwitches are born instead of made. She tucks him in. 

"Stay, for a bit." He feels very small. "If you like."

"I wish I could," she says, brushing his hair away from his face fondly. "Believe me—I'd much prefer to, but…"

"Duty calls."

"Afraid so." Her movements have an easy, subtle grace. Severus wants to ask why she was never a mother. She would have been a good one. "Get some sleep, now."

He nods and turns over.

XXXXX

"You're well enough to be up and about," Poppy pronounces. "Can't lie in bed your whole life—believe me, I've tried."

"Do you need the room for someone else?"

"No. We didn't actually have many wounded." From her tone, Severus takes this to mean that she'd rather she were neck-deep in patients. It would mean more survivors. "And since St. Mungo's was retaken, they've sent most to be treated there."

"Potter."

"Oh, we're not giving up Harry—now that we've got him back. He's down the hall. I expect you'll want to move back down to the dungeons?"

"Soon," Severus says, even managing to fool himself with the lie.

XXXXX

His first appearance in the Great Hall is marked with applause. Shacklebolt claps him on the shoulder.

Severus turns around and walks out.

XXXXX

Neville Longbottom clutches an apple. "Could I sit here?"

Severus shrugs as if to say—Do whatever you like, Longbottom—the windowsill is wide enough for ten idiots, and if you fancy looking at clouds of black smoke from rubbish fires—be my guest, take in the view.

"I don't like the Great Hall, either. …Want one?"

He takes the offered apple—but only because he is hungry. Not because he wants company. And Longbottom is certainly not his idea of ideal company—the walking magical disaster wears circles under his eyes to match the color of his plum robes.

Longbottom settles himself on the sill opposite, produces another apple, and consumes it the way a squirrel eats a nut—quickly, with both hands and chopping bites. 

Severus opens his mouth. He means to say—where are all your Aurors? But what comes out is—"Which Malfoy?"

"…The old one." Neville's cheek is almost against the window glass.

"How did you hex Lucius Malfoy?"

The Accident shakes his head. "I didn't. He was—I hit him with a rock."

"You brought down Lucius Malfoy with a rock."

"I tried to hit him with a spell. It didn't work. …It was a pretty big rock. …They killed my Mum and Dad." From his pockets, Neville produces another apple and crunches into it. Severus watches Longbottom's throat work for a moment.

"You'll get no sympathy from me, Mister Longbottom."

Neville does not seem surprised. "Apple?"

"Haven't begun the first."

"Oh. Right." Neville resumes chewing.

"Are you storing up for winter?"

"What?"

"Forget it."

"Winter is nearly over, sir."

"I said forget it."

XXXXX

Lupin comes in to the infirmary room to talk at him. There will be an Order meeting—

"I won't be in attendance."

Snape—

"The Dark Lord is dead. Do not presume to lecture me."

XXXXX

Severus Snape spends his days in idleness. Someone suggests that he might want to take a look at the potion stores. Another points out that there is a war still going on, that work needs doing, that there are many ways in which a competent Potions Master might help.

Severus wakes around midday, washes, brushes, avoids Madam Pomfrey's insinuations that he is well enough to move out of the infirmary room, harangues one of the younger soldiers into bringing him a cup of tea, paces the length and width of the castle in his old student-hunting pattern, eats whatever supper Longbottom provides (and makes sure to belittle the World's Luckiest Idiot—it makes them both feel better), nicks a few books from the Restricted Section, and closets himself in Filch's old office until the wee hours.

He doesn't know where Filch is, and doesn't want to know. Snape prefers to think that Albus had the man and his cats spirited away.

It is very silly, Severus thinks, to cry over someone because he had a sympathetic philosophy of discipline and once helped bandage your leg.

When he returns late to the infirmary, the Aurors guarding Harry check him, take his wand, and then let him through the wards. They don't leave Severus alone with Harry, or let him get close enough to touch, but Severus is close enough to see the way his chest rises and falls, the way fringes of dark lashes rest on pale cheeks, the way Harry always looks so beautiful in sleep. Sometimes the Aurors let him sit in the chair by the door and just—look.

Never for more than fifteen minutes, but it is enough.

XXXXX

Severus enjoys black.

He does not have to change for memorial services, and no one ever invites him to weddings.

XXXXX

He hears reports of fighting. He sees groups of strangers rush past. He knows there is a war on.

He doesn't care.

He makes a pathetic attempt at it, caring, but he finds he'd rather pick at the flaking Mark, look out the windows, and hum old pub songs. 

XXXXX

Lupin talks and talks and bloody talks. Severus nods once in a while and loses all thread of the ramble. "Lupin. What do you want?"

The werewolf smiles and nudges his elbow gently. "I'm saying thank you. For bringing him back."

"Fat lot of good it is if he never wakes up."

"Don't say that. He'll wake up," Lupin insists, and speaks with such conviction that it amazes Severus.

"Why? Because he's Harry Bloody Potter? Because he's a miracle? Because he can do anything? Let me tell you something, Lupin—I know that man better than you ever did—or ever will. He's not a superman—he never was. He was an overemotional bundle of insecurity and dumb luck—"

"I think it is a sad thing, Severus, that you talk about him as if he is already dead. I realize you might want that, once he tells us the truth about what happened in that room—"

He begins to raise his hand as if to slap Lupin, catches himself, and lowers it. "What exactly are you implying?"

"Not a thing, Severus. Why? Have something to hide?" Lupin smirks.

Severus realizes he is teasing. He arches a brow.

Lupin sighs. "I didn't mean to come here and fight with you—I wanted to thank you. I know you and Harry hate each other. But even if you are—well, you—you brought him back. Thank you."

"Are you quite finished?"

"Sure. I just—wanted to thank you."

"You've thanked me. You can go now."

Lupin accidentally leaves behind a crumpled chocolate bar wrapper. The werewolf closes the door behind him. Severus wonders how much of Lupin's gratitude was a not-so-sly way to lay the foundation for a request for Wolfsbane.

"What am I doing here?" he whispers to the wall.

XXXXX

Excited chatter wakes Severus.

He rises, washes, brushes, dresses, and exits into the packed hallway only to be pushed aside by a line of assorted witches and wizards.

"He's awake! He's awake! Harry Potter!"

He thinks it must be wrong to want to curse all these people, to steal their miracle and spirit him away where all these rough hands can't paw at him. He knows it is wrong that an impromptu receiving line has been set up, and that he is sandwiched somewhere in the middle. Severus begins to shove his way to the head of the line.

Sharp elbows are an underrated feature.

XXXXX

A wall of Weasleys blocks most of the light from the windows. Lupin leans against the wall near the door, beaming like he bears an actual blood tie to Potter and not simply the moon. Minerva has earned the chair with the cushion; the Thick-Headed Weasley and the Know-It-All sit next to—

Harry Bloody Potter, back from the dead—or a coma, but dead will make better copy, and that is how the legend will be penned—and blinking like a hatchling. He seems so young, surrounded by so many smiling faces. So many teeth.

Would they bite if he asked? Snape wonders.

"Severus," Minerva says.

Potter sees him then, really sees him—green eyes pin him to the spot and Severus doesn't dare move or he will give himself away.

"I wasn't sure you would be dropping by," she goes on. She says something else, too, no doubt at his expense, but Severus isn't listening.

He stares at Potter. Tousled dark hair—hair that is almost black, but is revealed to be the darkest brown when viewed against a pillowcase. Green eyes that remind Severus of chopping mint and being desired and, embarrassingly enough, the smell of butter. Pink, perfect lips.

He frowns. Severus brought Potter to Hogwarts in his clothes—Poppy had him in an infirmary gown—but someone has managed to dress him in a pair of golden Gryffindor pajamas to match the ones left behind. A red and gold blanket sits across his lap. Severus glares daggers at Molly Weasley.

Lupin clears his throat.

Severus is holding up the crowd. He takes a step towards the bed. Granger and Weasley draw back noticeably. 

But it's all right—it's fine—he's awake. Harry is awake. They are all right—both of them survived. And neither one of them failed.

Albus must've known. The old wizard must have known that this was the one thing Severus wouldn't botch straight to hell. He takes another step. He blinks. His mouth opens. Closes. Everyone is staring. They all must know, god, how could they not, how could they not see it written on his face?

"Potter," he barks. Severus spots Granger reaching over to clasp one of Harry's hands and his lip curls under the weight of a vicious suppressed insult.

Potter glances swiftly at Lupin and back again. "…Professor Snape."

Not an eyelash flickers at the sting of his old title. Why should he care that Potter doesn't call him Severus in the company of friends and family? Well—he doesn't. Not in the least. Because when the novelty has worn off—when they all stop haunting Potter—when the world has settled a bit—then—

Granger's hand tightens. The wall of Weasleys looms. Potter does not speak.

Oh.

…Oh.

…oh…

Of course.

"Good afternoon," Severus says, and flinches when a hand settles on his shoulder and steers him to the door.

"All right, Snape, I think Harry's seen enough of you for a while. Give the rest of us a turn, will you?" jokes the werewolf.

Some of the Weasels titter.

Severus looks back at Potter, whose attention is already distracted by something Granger is saying. For a supposed cripple, she looks remarkably whole. All of them do. Whole and happy.

Well, take him, then—Severus wants to say. Take your little poppet, dress him in house colors, and pretend there was never a war. He'll be fine without me, fine without Albus—

They haven't told Potter about the Headmaster.

A malicious tendril uncurls.

"Albus is dead," Severus blurts, and feels Lupin's hand slip from his shoulder. "The Headmaster is dead." Severus doesn't look at any of them as he turns and shoves his way past the queue at the door.

Weddings and parties. Severus is never invited to weddings or parties.

XXXXX

He is tired. His body feels dry and leeched and old. He imagines crumbling to dust—his skin cracking like parchment, his insides pouring fine white sand, his bones soft as chalk.

He thinks he is going to die.

And then he thinks—if he should die, it should not be here. Snape thinks that if he dies in Hogwarts or on Hogwarts' grounds, he will end up like Binns or the Baron—and have to put up with children for the rest of his afterlife.

So—because he is dying—and not because of Potter—and not because of Albus— not because he dreads waking up—not because he hates the mirror and the way the castle is stuffed with gawkers and that he isn't even allowed to hold Harry Bloody Fucking Potter by the hand—

Because he is dying. That is why he decides to go.

XXXXX

His lab is a mess. It obviously hasn't been cleaned by grumbling rule-breakers in months. He does manage to find a collapsible cauldron (he hadn't wanted to go into the room without one) and a small amount of glassware.

He lifts anything useful left in his office—quills, ink, parchment, a few of the more arcane reference texts he hasn't quite memorized—

XXXXX

The storage shelves are bare, save a few molding shrivelfigs, wings of—"Oh."

His emergency supplies are gone—none of the healing, energy, or calming potions, no Dreamless Sleep. He expected that. But the stranger concoctions—polishing, levitation, even the bloody dust repellent—not a trace. Nothing. All gone to the effort.

Then his eyes stray to the dusty, warded cabinet marked with a skull—he shivers—and the word 'Poison' inscribed on a brass plate.

If they'd broken through these wards—

Snape presses his palm to the plate. "Veneficus."

The cabinet clinks open, presenting him with an array of dark, dull little bottles.

He takes them all.

XXXXX

His lungs protest after the fourth flight of stairs. Cured, indeed. 

Severus reaches the Owlery. The witch guarding the door tips him a nod.

Too many of the perches are empty. A few owls peer down at him, their eyes shining.

His speech is not eloquent. "I don't promise much. A change of scenery. A lack of adventure."

To his surprise, three owls fly down. Two brown owls—one with a nasty scorch on its left side, the other with an eye missing—and a snowy white owl with a bound broken wing. Well. Beggars can't be choosers.

Snape appropriates one of the larger cages.

XXXXX

For some reason, Neville Longbottom is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. "Leaving then, sir?"

"No, Longbottom," he sneers, floating his trunk and the cage behind him, "I'm baking a cake. What does it look like?"

"Looks like you're leaving, Professor."

"Thank Merlin you still possess your keen powers of deduction."

"I wanted to make sure you got this back. Things tend to go missing, what with—all the confusion. Sir." Longbottom still hasn't grown out of his baby fat. Clutched in pudgy fingers is the battered black valise.

"Confusion—ha. Looters and thieves. Keep up with the diplomacy, Longbottom, you could be the next Minister of Magic." Severus takes the valise.

"Thank you, sir."

"It wasn't a compliment." He sweeps past the Tower of Incompetence.

"I realize that, sir." Neville calls after him. "Goodbye, sir."

Oh, for the love of—"Longbottom. …Thank you."

"You're welcome, Professor."

XXXXX

He feels …blank. And he doesn't particularly know where he is going, or how he is going to get there, or what it will cost when he arrives.

But he does know now that he is alone. His father is gone. Albus is gone. Voldemort is gone. Potter doesn't need him.

For the first time in his life, Severus is without a keeper.

He is… free.

XXXXX


	5. Chapter 5

He remembers the night in July—early on, when they'd been convinced the waiting would end in a matter of days. He remembers feigning sleep. He remembers hearing the younger man creep into the bathroom at midnight and shut the door.

It was the first time he heard Potter sing. 

"…Happy Birthday to me…"

And, being that he is a bit drunk (and therefore sentimental), Severus Snape stays awake on this same night—one year later, and—April, May, June, July—nearly four months since he'd fled Hogwarts.

Severus' birthday is in January. He'd never celebrated the day; if his mother remarked upon it, it was to remind him that his passage into the world hadn't been an easy one.

Why Potter's birthday is important—is not clear. That particular Gryffindor's fixation with dates—this holiday, that holiday, one of the Weasels' birthdays, Halloween, Christmas—

The word 'Anniversary' floats through his mind and settles on the tip of his tongue. Severus washes it down his throat with a pull of foggy amber liquid. It is a special mixture—part cheap firewhiskey, part cheap fizzing gin, run the foul garbage through a few filters, mix with a liberal dose of Gandismash's Best, let sit twelve minutes, stir one full rotation clockwise each minute, add sixteen miniature marshmallows per serving, flash heating charm—serve right away, preferably in a thick mug.

Severus doesn't have a mug. Or the marshmallows. He gets by without.

This is generally the way of things.

"Very silly," he mutters, and sips again from the beaker. His glassware does double duty these days. He hasn't bothered with all the trappings of domestic life; shopping for a set of dishes seems more a task for a young, rosy-cheeked witch with someone waiting at home.

The fire burns low, the flame hinting at yellow.

XXXXX

He works through the rest of the night.

An amethyst bottle is selected from his collection. He hasn't invested in many decorative bottles—one or two, for aphrodisiacs and the like. Wishful thinking on his part—he hasn't had a commission even bordering on romantic.

Point of fact, few of them border on legal. But he doesn't mind so much.

He has promised himself that he will take only the orders he wants to take—the challenging commissions—the potions whose demands stretch the limits of his endurance and ability. But so far—in the interest of establishing a base of clients—(and because brewing keeps him from unraveling)—he has taken every commission.

Hercady's Cloud of Conflagration sits in a warded bottle on the edge of his windowsill, labeled and ready for delivery. Severus suggests in a detailed packet of instructions that the solution might best be applied with a lead-lined plant mister while wearing as much dragonhide as possible. He thinks of Neville Longbottom whenever he writes out labels, making sure to explain even that which common sense should dictate.

The amethyst bottle is delicate, curved. Lovely. Too lovely, really. A plain glass bottle would more than suffice. To send amethyst would be sending a message—it would say, 'I am trying.'

He decants the evening's work into the… the amethyst bottle. The stopper is replaced carefully.

In elegant script, Severus writes out a label and directions. With a shaking hand, Severus turns over the card and writes the words—

'As I am sure you will receive nothing but frivolous gifts, I am compelled to send something practical. Happy Birthday, Mister Potter. No doubt this year will be better than the last.

Yours,  
Severus Snape.'

On the fire, the log snaps in two, collapsing and killing the flame. The parlor darkens, lit only by glowing coals.

He attaches the card around the neck of the bottle with a length of ribbon and drops his chin into his hands.

He blinks at the card and the attached bottle, and finally forces himself to place it on the windowsill with the other orders.

On second thought…

Severus throws open the window and whistles. He hears the flutter of wings and holds the bottle aloft. "This goes tonight," he calls. "Waiting for a reply… is not necessary."

XXXXX

He wakes.

Slight break in the routine—Severus goes to the window and checks for messages. Nothing.

"You said no reply," he mutters, and heads back to the bathroom.

He relieves himself, he washes, he brushes. In the mirror, he finds another gray hair and spells it black. One excellent feature of the cottage is that it has quiet furniture. The one bit that speaks to him is the icebox, and then Severus only receives terse communications like—"Milk's gone off." The bathroom mirror never says a word, not even when he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep.

Severus looks at his reflection and doesn't frown. He is beginning to get old—the lines on his face seem more pronounced, the gray keeps invading. The first signs are there. He wonders what he will look like in twenty years, thirty. Snape never expected he'd be in a position to get old. He doubts he will have laugh lines like the Headmaster's.

He wonders if Potter will.

The bathroom is smaller than the one he and Potter shared. It has also seen more use. The porcelain of the sink has been cracked and inexpertly repaired so that a basin full of water will drip, drip, drip onto the equally cracked tile below. A small, wooden cabinet adheres to the wall over the toilet—Severus transfigured it himself (which is why the second shelf isn't quite level). It holds a variety of common ingredients. Where a tub would normally sit, Severus has placed three cauldrons. He checks the heating charm on the first, adds a drop of saltwater, and replaces the lid. The second belches a puff of sweet-smelling steam when uncovered; he stirs it six times counterclockwise. The third, his largest cauldron, holds a thick, navy blue substance the consistency of tar.

Severus sighs and stares into the cauldron. The tar-like goop should be a pale blue color—and more akin to custard in thickness. Such a waste. If he'd been attending to it last night instead of mooning all evening—

"You said no reply." An internal battle wages.

Dignity slain, he goes to check the window again.

XXXXX

'Dear Mister Potter'—

No.

'Mister Potter,"—

Better.

'With regards to the delivery of the Dreamless Sleep Concentrate'—

Bloody—sounds like a shipping confirmation. 

'Mister Potter,

I hope this message finds you well.'—

Clarify?—I hope you are well and that this message finds you?

It's Potter. Don't over-think. He won't.

'You are, I am sure, swamped by well-wishers, bootlickers, and sycophants; I will take it as read that you no longer have time for petty concerns such as keeping up with correspondence. I have little time for it myself these days.'—

"Even a fool wouldn't believe this." Severus pushes the chair away from his desk, abandoning the sixth draft.

Muted sunlight shines through the curtains. A corkboard attached to the wall of the parlor is divided into three sections—new commissions, current projects, and orders to be shipped. Each piece of parchment is held by a thumbtack and moved across the board accordingly. Completed commissions go into the file—payment is deposited in the biscuit tins under the kitchen sink. He keeps strict accounts in an impenetrable code in the margins of a bookshop bargain bin acquisition entitled 'Wonders of the World.' The owls make deliveries in the mornings and bring his mail from a postal box in the nearest wizarding town, Latchkey-by-the-Sea. 

He has been to the town twice, both times under the effects of polyjuice. Miserable town full of miserable idiots, but with an excellent bakery and a decent (if dusty) secondhand shop where he'd bought most of his furniture.

He works, he eats, he sleeps, he reads—every morning he gets out of bed, makes tea, has a scone—without butter.

It is a simple life.

But it is his own.

XXXXX

He hadn't meant to buy a cottage.

Severus has always hated staying at inns. He never knows where the sheets have been, and no amount of scouring charms can rid him of the foul feeling of rubbing his body in some stranger's sebaceous discharges. He'd decided to look for a cheap, out-of-the-way flat—and that was when he'd seen the advert.

He knew it backward and forward. He and Potter both must've read it dozens of times in the paper they'd brought into the room. After nearly a year, the same listing was still running.

Severus didn't believe it was fate. But he did believe in his negotiating leverage with a seller who obviously couldn't move the property. 

He'd got it for a song.

It is worth about that much.

It lurks at the bottom of a small cliff. When approached from the front, the cottage looks a bit like it had been built on top of the cliff and had somehow slipped over the edge. Its angles are uneven. The windows don't completely fit their frames.

Severus likes to think it tried to leap to its demise. Goodbye cruel world—crunch.

He'd never owned his own home—it had seemed advisable to start small. Four rooms—kitchen, parlor, bedroom, bathroom. A shed set off to the side of the yard for the owls.

The walls and floors are warped—Severus places old texts underneath the legs of his desk and cauldron stands—even the claw-footed bathtub next to his desk in the parlor is propped up by a copy of Potions Quarterly.

Living alone does have its perks.

He bathes near the warmth of the fire in the parlor. He decides when to wake, when to eat, when to sleep, when to work, when to read—he finds that he feels better if he starts his day at eight o'clock in the morning instead of six. Lunch around one, tea throughout the day, supper at six-thirty, a little something to tide him over later on. Deliveries and shopping lists off in the morning, bit of cleaning, housework, test the wards, set up the day's commissions—

The routine is important. Getting out of bed is important.

Sometimes—he can't.

Severus checks the windowsill again. Still no note from Potter—though he did say not to wait for a response.

"Madness," he pronounces, and goes out to send the day's commissions.

XXXXX

"Acrimony—the utmost care." The screech owl inspects the package containing the bottle of Conflagration, notes the address, and swoops away.

"Cyclops. Hazard. Iniquity. Keelhaul." One by one, his owls drop from their perches and take away their deliveries. Cyclops, Singe, and Osrick, his owls from Hogwarts, have collected the others—or so he assumes. Severus does not know if the new owls are refugees from the castle or simply strays. Most households won't give up an owl easily—and vice versa. "Osrick. Quagmire. Singe. Wedgewood. …Wedgewood. …Wedgewood? Hasn't she returned…?"

Singe shakes his speckled head and hoots. 

XXXXX

He checks the shed twice during the simmering stage of a simple batch of knockoff Pogre-Bane.

No owl. No message. Nothing.

The shadow of the cliff steals over the cottage.

XXXXX

That night, he wakes to a screech and the scrabble of talons.

"Nox." The lamp winks out.

Severus rolls out of bed and creeps into the parlor.

A squat, gray owl with gnarled claws beats against the glass. Wedgewood.

He is at the parlor window in four long strides. Severus pulls it open; the owl shoots past him and alights on his desk. A chill wind startles his papers.

Wedgewood carries nothing. She trembles.

Severus shuts the window. "What? What happened? Were you attacked? Was the potion intercepted?"

The screech owl hides her head under her wing.

"What? What does that mean? Remind me to make up a form for the lot of you to fill out—check box one if potion exploded—check box two if client refused to pay…" He shivers at the chill and fetches his dressing gown from the hook on the bedroom door. Summers are supposed to be warm. "Unseasonable temperatures… Are you wounded?"

Wedgewood shakes her head and resumes hiding under her wing.

"What?" barks Severus. For all that he likes owls, they can be ruddy annoying. "…What?" he asks again.

The owl looks to the window.

For a moment, the crickets outside are as loud as thunder.

And suddenly—a thud—

—and the sound of heels sliding in gravel.

His breath catches. "Accio wand," Severus whispers.

The wand flies into his hand as his back hits the corkboard. A few of his pinned commission letters tumble to the floor. He holds his breath. A cough threatens to rise.

There are people hunting him, Severus knows. There are people who believe he is a hero—there are wizards and witches who would shake his hand if they met him on the street. And then there are those who believe that he is quite possibly the greatest traitor the wizarding world has ever known.

He hasn't dueled in over a year.

Oddly, he is not afraid. If they've found him—well, they've found him.

Good.

Severus reaches for the doorknob. A curse settles on his lips.

"…Hello…?" calls a voice.

His eyes widen. His throat closes. Severus flattens himself against the wall.

"Hello…?"

"Had to lose your mind… had to send a gift… you just had to," he whispers. Severus shakes his head and forces his mouth shut. No more drinking. Never again.

"Hullo…?" calls the familiar voice. Still clear, bell-like. Not much for singing. "…I saw a light! Hello!"

The cottage has no back door. Severus is not on the floo network. His anti-apparition wards are extensive.

He's been caught.

"Hello!" The front door shakes with the force of the knock. His wards crackle—but if Potter was only delayed for a few seconds by his perimeter, Snape doesn't stand a chance in the cottage. He imagines Harry picking apart the little house plank by plank—or levitating the shack into the air and shaking it until its resident falls out.

Wedgewood hops to the edge of the desk and peers at him.

"Oh, you ridiculous creature," he hisses. "Couldn't even manage a proper death squad, could you? Oh, no—you had to bring Harry Bloody Potter."

"Hello? Hello!" The shouts are accompanied by the same pounding knock.

Oh, fine, then—if he won't leave well enough alone—

As Severus moves to grip the doorknob, it twists viciously under his hand. First right, then left. Footsteps march away, then back again.

"Alohomora! …Alohomora! Alohomora!" The last is delivered in a panicked screech.

The wards shudder—and hold.

Severus coughs. 

The voice outside is silent.

He takes a deep breath. "…It's warded," Severus calls through the front door. "Wait. …One moment." The deadbolt slides open easily under his fingers. "I refuse to use the names of sweets," he says. The password is accepted; the wards recede.

Bugger. 

He opens the door.

XXXXX

It isn't much consolation, but Severus notes that Potter is at least as rattled as he is.

One hand clutches the handle of a racing broom in a death grip. The other is buried in the pocket of his golden dress robes. They swish expensively as Harry shifts from one foot to the other. Potter looks taller, too—ah-ha. New boots—not dragonhide, but with the same sort of texture—and a slight heel. His cheeks are flushed. The lightning bolt scar on his forehead is pale and white. He might've stepped straight off the cover of Witch Weekly.

"Your hair still looks terrible," Severus says.

Potter stands on the gravel path in front of the tiny, ugly cottage and stares.

Snape stares back. "…Yes?"

Crickets chirp. For a moment, Severus is not sure whether Potter is going to speak or pass out.

"I'm supposed to be at a party—it's my birthday—of course you know, you sent me—thank you for the—thank you for my present," he expels in a rush. From his pocket, Potter draws out the amethyst bottle. It fits into the palm of his hand.

"Welcome." Severus offers a curt nod. He tries not to turn scarlet with embarrassment. The annoyance and cultivated pallor help.

Seconds tick by.

Harry replaces the potion in the pocket of his dress robes.

"…Tea?" Severus finally offers, because he has no idea what to say.

"Yeah—that would be—good—if you're not—I mean—if you aren't—did I wake you?" His brows furrow.

"Of course not." Severus turns and walks back through the doorway—commission letters on the floor, a trembling owl trying to sandwich herself between the desk and the wall, the bathtub with scrubbing brush and soap balanced on the rim (making it completely indefensible as a cauldron substitute). "I haven't had time to straighten," he mutters, and feels unbearably ridiculous—standing in the warped doorway in his tatty black dressing gown and nightshirt—with his enormous, hooked nose and his graying hair—

"I didn't know you were going to leave," blurts Potter suddenly.

The taller wizard turns.

The toe of Harry's boot kicks at the gravel. "I didn't know you were going to leave—that day. I didn't know what was going on. They told me you were all right—that you got us out—and then everyone was joking like I'd just spent months taking NEWT-level Potions. You never even bothered to tell anyone we were—" A moment's hesitation. "Friends."

Snape bristles. "And because of that omission, I am here instead of hanging from a tree by my neck. Romantic as it might be for me to declare my intentions toward a boy two decades younger who lies unconscious and unable to provide a counterpoint to the—"

"Don't you dare call me a boy." Potter's eyes flash. "I'm not the one who ran away!"

"I did not run, Mister Potter. I walked—at a rather leisurely pace. No one came after me."

"You never told me you were leaving! You never—you just left—you just left!" That wild, screeching quality comes back—in the gold robes, Harry resembles an agitated Fawkes.

Severus folds his arms. "Yes. I did."

"How can you…?" Harry splutters. "Do you have any idea what it was like—waking up, seeing everyone there, hearing the war is over, all the celebrating—hearing that the Headmaster is dead—and then you were just—gone."

"I'm sorry—was that a question?" Severus paces back out onto the front step. "Have you come to make accusations, or did you require some other service?" Crickets. The moon is a pale sliver in the sky. "Here on behalf of your surrogate godfather? Tell him I don't do Wolfsbane anymore."

"I'm not here for Remus." Potter's nostrils flare. "I came to thank you."

"You have." His voice is cold. "Anything further?"

"Why didn't you at least say we were friends?"

"Because we weren't friends, Mister Potter—and I doubt we will ever be—friends." Severus turns on his heel and goes back into the cottage, threading his way through the thumbtacks and papers on the floor to the kitchen.

Something inside him sinks—and then Severus hears the soft thunk of boots on the floorboards.

He fills the kettle.

XXXXX

They have tea at the little table in the corner of the kitchen. It isn't quite level; every time Potter rests his elbow, it tilts. "Sorry."

"Haven't gotten around to transfiguring it yet. …I don't usually use the table at all. Not much call for a formal sit-down." A saucer of biscuits rests in the center of the table next to the kettle. Severus starts to reach for one, but then sees Potter's hand move—and then Potter looks at him and puts his hand down again. The biscuits sit untouched.

"I eat with the Aurors that guard me, mostly. Sometimes Remus or Bill will be there. Ron and Hermione, every now and then."

"How lovely, that you still mingle with the commoners."

Potter puckers his lips and blows on the tea. "Are you that angry with me, or are you just uncomfortable?"

He tightens one hand on the tie of his dressing gown and wishes Potter had come in the daytime like a normal person. "Don't feign maturity—you do it poorly. It is hardly impressive, and makes you seem insincere." Severus hopes he does not shatter his own teacup. Potter's elbow hits the table again and it makes him jump.

"Sorry." Harry reaches for a biscuit. This time, the approach is successful. "I…" He takes a bite, chews, swallows. "…Should I go?"

No. "If you fancy flying back to Hogwarts in the middle of the night, be my guest."

"I'm not at Hogwarts."

"Oh? Back in the Hole with the Weasels?"

This time Harry has the good sense to roll his eyes. "I'm not at the Burrow, either. They've got me in a secure location—supposedly secure, anyway. When your owl found me, the Aurors had a fit. It was pretty funny, actually. …How did your owl find me?"

"Haven't a clue."

"Maybe the Headmistress sent it on—if it wound up at Hogwarts."

"Perhaps." Headmistress, indeed. Severus drains his cup and pours himself another. A few drops splatter on the table as he picks up the kettle. Harry leans over and wipes them with his sleeve. "Are we a house elf?"

"We're thinking about it. We don't really know what to do—we're keeping our options open," Harry says with a straight face. Severus thinks for a moment that he might be serious.

"They haven't asked you to play professional Quidditch yet?"

"Matter of fact, no. Though I'm sure I'd have offers if anyone had spotted me tracking your owl. I haven't flown like that in… a year?"

"I'm amazed they allowed you outside."

Harry nibbles at the biscuit. "These are good. What kind are they?"

"Plain shortbread. …Mister Potter—"

"They don't let me out." Potter chews. "I like these when they have the little blob of jam in the middle." He swallows. "I sit in a room. I have more to read, I get to see people, I'm not strictly forbidden to use magic—only mildly forbidden—and everyone looks at me like I've grown three heads." Harry goes quiet for a moment. "…These are really good—where do you get them?" Potter indicates the biscuits.

Severus relaxes just a little. They are both good at talking about food. "Bakery in town."

"Town?"

"Vaguely west, over the rise. Latchkey-by-the-Sea. Don't look at me—I didn't name it. I go on Sundays—do the shopping."

"No one recognizes you? They've printed your picture almost as much as—"

"Polyjuice."

"Oh. Right. You. Potions. …I keep missing the obvious. Going soft." Potter's voice cracks.

Severus looks up from his cup and sees a blurred reflection. Dark, wild hair—skin the color of milk. "Well… now you've the time."

"Yeah." Potter turns a piece of biscuit over and over. "…I didn't know you were going to leave. I thought I'd—I thought there must've been a reason you didn't tell anyone about—you know—and I figured we'd get a chance to talk later—I didn't know you were going to lea—" Harry's voice catches for an instant. "We never talked about what if… about what would happen when we got out."

"No, Mister Potter, we did not." He looks into his teacup, and knows Potter is doing the same. Severus is tired. Two cups of tea, and he can still feel the exhaustion in his bones. He rubs his eyes with his fingers.

"I knew I woke you."

"In the middle of the night? You think?"

"Don't get mad at me. Next time do something sensible—like send directions and an invitation. Have you ever tried to tail an owl on a broom in the dark? And she was trying to lose me—it's not easy."

"Perhaps I didn't want to be found, Mister Potter."

"You sent me a present and signed your name. From you, that's begging." Potter's cup clatters on the table.

Harry has always had a talent for rubbing at Severus' raw spots. The older wizard takes his feet. "Enough of this, Potter. I have work in the morning." He begins clearing the table.

"What work?"

"I brew on commission. Owl order potions. Mostly poisons."

"Oh. …Is that going well?"

"So far."

"…I'm glad."

"It's an odd fact—wartime, peacetime—no matter which, poisons do a brisk trade."

"I wouldn't know." Harry hands over his half-filled cup. Severus does not use it as an excuse to touch him.

"Well. It was never your subject of choice."

"True." Harry folds his hands in his lap. "…The Headmaster once told me that when you were a student, you asked him to give you a full year of independent study."

Memory springs unexpectedly. "I was sixteen. Half my classes were with Gryffindors—no offense."

Harry snorts softly.

"I was working on a potion to kill dragons. …I was going to be the youngest wizard ever to present the keynote speech at EuroPotion." Severus steps to the sink. His kitchen is smaller than the parlor. Severus thinks muggles must have lived here once—or muggle-borns, at any rate. The sink is embedded in a length of counter next to the icebox. On the other side is an old cooker. All are thoroughly charmed for wizarding use. Cabinets line the wall above—they hold his glassware and the few poisons from his personal collection that he wasn't able to sell in Knockturn Alley.

"Why did you want to kill dragons?"

"Because no one else did. Not with potions." He thinks of the Headmaster then—of squirming in the chair across from his desk and feeling like an idiot child after asking. Dumbledore hadn't even read his written proposal. He'd said something about social skills and participation, about the proper pursuits of a sixteen-year-old boy. Lemon drop, pat on the head, run along now.

Severus finds his teeth are clenched. Three decades later, that memory still leaves him furious.

"Why not?"

"Easier ways to go about it. Get it asleep, knock its brains out—that's the usual method. There hasn't been an efficient potion created to kill a dragon—or at least, kill a dragon without destroying or contaminating all those valuable parts. Dragonhide is impervious to nearly every potion—and I say nearly because there may be one we've not yet discovered—which means there can be no topical application. Vapor delivery systems are impractical—you would need a closed area, a concentrated dose—and the temperature inside a dragon's lungs—" Severus stops and looks down at the mismatched cups in his hands. He is not lecturing. He is no longer a teacher.

"Severus..? Are you okay?"

"Fine. …Tired."

"So am I. …You should know. I didn't tell anyone either. About—you and me. So I really can't get mad at you for that part. But you still shouldn't have left like that. …I guess I should—go." Potter does not move.

Severus searches for a breath. "I imagine saviors of the wizarding world do have appointments to keep."

"I don't have appointments. …There's this thing I have to do Saturday. Otherwise, I'm free. More or less." Harry steals the tiniest of glances at him.

"Do what you like, Mister Potter. You always have."

"What would you like?"

"To go to bed," he replies honestly.

"Right." Harry does not move from the table. "…I'll—go, then." He rises from the table. It wobbles back and forth.

The door of the icebox becomes fascinating. "Of course—you might stay. Tonight. Dangerous to fly while tired. Over unfamiliar territory and all." He does not state the obvious—which is that Potter could fly outside the wards and apparate to wherever he is going.

The younger wizard seems to be giving the observation careful consideration. "They said it was going to rain tonight."

"No more sure way to risk one's life than flying in a lightning storm." 

"Maybe I should stay over." Potter nods.

"Perhaps it's best." Severus echoes the movement. "The—the bathroom is through the bedroom. Mind you don't jostle the cauldrons. You'll find a nightshirt in the second drawer of the dresser—your choice of white or gray. I am afraid I have nothing in gold."

Harry snorts. "You have no idea how sick of gold I am." He hovers in the doorway. "…Are you coming?"

"I'll be along in a few minutes."

"Okay."

The kettle is rinsed—the cups—the biscuits go back in the tin. The saucer. Severus goes to the parlor and removes a slim volume from the bookshelves—'Arithmancy for Idiots'—and puts it under the table leg. He wipes down the table, pads out to the parlor, and lets his owl out. Papers are picked up—thumbtacks are collected.

Potter's broom leans on the wall next to the front door.

XXXXX

Harry's glasses rest on the nightstand along with his wand and the amethyst bottle. When Severus steps into the room, Potter's eyes open and the green gaze hovers in his direction. His nightshirts are a bit long on Potter—the younger wizard wears the sleeves rolled. His head rests on the edge of the pillow. Harry's back is at the wall. The corner of the covers have been pulled back in welcome.

Potter watches him take off the dressing gown and place it on its hook. "Do you keep the lamp on?" He motions at a decorative sunset-colored lamp hanging above the bed—Severus' one less-than-utilitarian purchase from the secondhand store.

"Occasionally. I've only been here a few weeks—don't want to trip over something in the dark." It isn't quite a lie.

Harry pushes back his sleeve and raises a hand. He flicks his fingers as if he held his wand. The lamp glows. The younger wizard settles back down. "…I don't need a wand. I still use one in front of the Aurors, but—I don't need it."

"Nor do I." Severus is frighteningly conscious of his movements. He forgets how to just toss himself into bed—it has never been something he has had to stop and consider. He tries sitting on the edge of the bed first, then slipping his legs under the covers—lying back—good—there.

"Don't let me hog the pillow," Harry says, and suddenly he is very, very close—pressed up right alongside, as if they had never been apart. 

Severus lifts his head as Potter arranges the pillow for both of them. "I should get another."

"Might be a good idea. In case of any more inclement weather." Harry yawns.

"…Good word."

"…You say it."

"Inclement."

Harry curls up close. "Good night."

"Good night. …No dreams." 

"No dreams."

They are both still for a few moments, and then Severus turns on his side and throws an arm around Potter's waist, pulling him closer.

XXXXX

In the morning, Potter is not gone. Gone from the bed, yes, but Severus finds him in the kitchen.

Harry stands at the counter. "I made eggs," he says, and motions toward a frying pan that Severus does not remember having. He also notices that 'Arithmancy for Idiots' has been moved to the counter. An inspection of his wobbling kitchen table reveals that it is now made of a dark, glossy wood that Severus does not believe is found in nature. Its legs all hit the uneven floor perfectly.

"I'm pretty good at transfiguration now."

"So it would seem. …How long did that take you?"

"Couple of minutes. Or so. Not long."

Severus scratches his forearm. The spot where the Dark Mark once pulsed tingles occasionally.

"I think I can put it back the way it was, if you want."

He shrugs one shoulder. "This one is—it will serve."

"I should warn you—I did the legs on your desk and your bathtub."

"Oh." Briefly he considers a defense of said bathtub's location. But if Potter doesn't seem to want to use it to needle him…

"Have a seat," Potter says, and busies himself at the counter.

Severus notices that Potter has done the chairs to match. "…Better at transfiguration."

"Yeah—I wish I could go back and retake my exams. Here you go. Scrambled eggs, ala Potter." Harry serves him a generous heap of fluffy yellow eggs on a white plate. Two glasses of juice follow.

Severus has been eating out of cartons and drinking out of beakers. He does not have a frying pan, a spatula, plates, or proper juice glasses. "Tell me you didn't transfigure the food."

Harry sets a plate of toast and a jar of marmalade on the table to complete the spread. "Nope. Otherwise we'd have bacon. Go on. Eat."

Severus lifts an unfamiliar silver fork into the air and arches a brow at Potter, who is too busy spreading marmalade on toast and avoiding his gaze to see it.

There are a lot of things they should talk about, he knows. Questions about the nature of their relationship, present and future. And he would ask those questions—except that it is strange and exceedingly comfortable to watch Potter eat eggs, a little marmalade on toast—and then to see the face he makes when he puts the eggs on the marmalade on the toast and decides that it is not an idea whose time has come.

They are both given to quiet. 

XXXXX

Despite the fact that Potter is now rested, fed, and a few wisps of cloud litter the sunny sky, neither of them mentions his leaving.

Routine. Breakfast, wash, brush, dress, check the cauldrons—

"All of this is poison?"

"Not that one."

"What's that one?"

"A sugar mixture to attract small animals to the poison. I'll add it afterward."

"When you say small animals—you don't mean children, right?"

Out to the shed with the deliveries—

Osrick, as it turns out, is not a boy.

"Hedwig! I can't believe—Hedwig! I thought you were—you utter bastard, you stole my owl! Come here, girl—"

Severus folds his arms while Harry rolls around with his owl. From her perch, Wedgewood mimics his stance and shakes her head disapprovingly. Snape frowns at her. "You're the one who led him here. Potter—mind his—her—wing. It's only a few weeks mended."

"It was broken?" he asks. "You broke your wing, girl?" Harry talks to his owl like it is going to talk back.

Severus allocates deliveries to the rest of his owls, lips twitching as the reunion and one-sided conversation continue.

XXXXX

"Do you want me to make lunch?" Harry hasn't changed back into his gold robes and new boots. He pads around barefoot, still wearing the nightshirt. In deference to the daylight, he has added a pair of Severus' trousers.

Severus neatly skins a shrivelfig at his worktable in the parlor. He works in his shirtsleeves. "You are not a house elf."

"I know. But you're—busy—and I'm free. And it's been a while since I cooked for someone, so—"

"Where did you learn to cook?"

"Books, mostly. And my Aunt." He makes a face. "But her idea of seasoning is to add a bucket of salt. So can I make you something?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Cup of tea?"

Severus inclines his head once.

Potter brings him the tea a few minutes later. As Snape's hands are not clean, Harry leaves the cup and saucer at his elbow and wanders away.

Severus can hear Potter moving through the house. Likely he is touching things, reading things, opening drawers—

When his preparations are finished, Severus washes his hands and sips the not-quite-cold tea. It has only a little milk in it—just the way he likes it.

XXXXX

The bathroom sink is fixed. So is the second shelf of the cabinet.

There is nothing malevolent about the way Potter breathes into the pillow.

Severus feels the sudden impulse to wake him and demand to know exactly what he thinks he is doing here. Potter must have some ulterior motive. What could he be after? Harry has friends—bright, well-adjusted witches and wizards who must shower him with affection, attention, gifts.

"…What's wrong?" One green eye opens.

Severus realizes that he has been staring—possibly for some time. "Nothing."

"Something about summer. Good for afternoon naps. Sunshine makes me sleepy." His voice is raspy.

"Not all the transfiguration?"

"You kidding? I could make you a castle and I wouldn't be tired."

"Really."

Potter smirks up at him. His languorous shifting leaves Severus with a glimpse of skin where the nightshirt rides up. His trousers are snug on Potter, and also too long—the cuffs puddle around his ankles. "You want a castle?"

"Not particularly. Think of the upkeep."

"You could get a house elf."

"I don't want a house elf." At some point during the exchange, Severus notes that his own voice has dropped to mirror Potter's. 

"What do you want?"

"…You're very fond of that question, Mister Potter."

"Would it kill you to call me Harry again?"

"What are you doing here?" he whispers harshly.

"You want me to leave?"

"I didn't say that."

"Say something. …You're so quiet." Potter reaches out for one of his hands.

Severus lets himself be drawn down onto the bed, its sheets still crumpled from the night before. "I'm not, really. Quiet."

"Maybe it just seems that way—been a little while." Potter reclines on his back, pulling Severus' arm across his waist. The fingers of their joined hands lace. "You know… We're supposed to be celebrating. I know the war still isn't officially over, but…"

"Haven't been in the mood." Severus reasons that as long as Potter has his pillow, it is all right to use Harry's stomach as a substitute. Potter's body has that sort of amplified warmth found only in sleepers. The potion maker's feet hang off the edge of the bed—even when he tucks his knees up.

"Me neither." Harry's free hand runs through his hair. "You've got silver."

"I'm very old."

Harry combs gently. "Positively ancient." He stifles a yawn.

"Are we boring you, Mister Potter?"

"No," he says, and sticks out his tongue. "Your bed is comfortable," he murmurs. Potter closes his eyes. "I'm just going to lie here for the rest of my life. That all right?"

Severus imagines Potter sleeping for decades—vines creeping over him, his hair graying, the Weasels putting Potter in a glass case and holding a constant vigil. "We've earned a rest."

"Says Mister Bought-a-House-Started-a-Business."

"One—it's not a very good house. Two—it's not a very good business."

"But you're doing something. I sleep half the day. More, sometimes. Get nothing accomplished."

"You do know—I'm doing all this out of spite." Severus can hear the rumble of his voice against Potter's belly.

"What?"

"Nothing infuriates your enemies more than success. It sounds good, don't you think? 'What have you been up to, you greasy old traitor?' 'I've been out on the coast, renovating the cottage—'"

"You know people don't think of you like that anymore."

"Yes, they do."

"No, they don't."

Really, there is no point in arguing with Potter over his delusions. "Fine."

"…Are you okay?"

He means to say yes.

"Want to take a nap with me?"

This time, he does.


	6. Chapter 6

Severus only dozes for about an hour.

Potter—can sleep. And sleep. And sleep. He sleeps like he has been hoarding it all his life, and is finally cashing in all the saved hours. When he uses the word 'nap'—it does not quite describe the state of slumber Harry reaches.

Severus brings in the mail from the windowsill (it carries a minor sticking charm to prevent anything being snatched away by the wind). Every last piece of it is addressed to one Madame Aggrandizia Skoll, Potions Maker. The first name is from his grandmother, the second is the last name of his favorite childhood professor. The Madame is because it is statistically proven that witches sell more potions than wizards—also, when one pilfers a rubbish bin in the alley behind a salon for decent hair samples, one invariably comes up with something female.

The haul: two new commissions, a note from the recipient of an Immobilizing potion—assuring him that her payment will arrive any day now, and a cryptically-worded missive bearing unfamiliar initials. Severus sighs at the last letter, picks out the thinly-veiled moon references, thinks for a moment, turns it over, and scrawls on the back—'Yes. We do Wolfsbane.' He quotes an obscene price, though, in case it is Lupin. He accepts the other two commissions, one sizeable order of fabric-safe Lethifold killer and—surprise, surprise—more rat poison.

If he leans over in his chair, Severus can look through the doorway and just catch a glimpse of Potter's feet.

XXXXX

Potter wakes up in time for dinner.

They have chicken, pasta, and carrots. Severus wishes he had a bottle of wine to offer.

"This is great. I didn't know you could cook."

"It seems we have one shared skill."

"You fool no one," Potter announces with a raised eyebrow. "That was a disguised compliment."

XXXXX

"What do you usually do after dinner?"

"Work."

"After that?"

"Work. Sleep. If I'm feeling especially daring, I might read. Have a drink."

"Whoa. Someone let me off this wild ride." Potter leans back in the desk chair, balancing it on two legs while he watches Severus work. "…You know. …I can go whenever you want me to. I don't want to be a bother."

"I am quite inured to your presence, Mister Potter."

He dices, chops, grinds—pinch of elderlilly—

"I missed you."

"Me, too," Harry says. He grins broadly and accidentally tips the chair over. 

XXXXX

"Tim…" Potter warbles up and down the scale.

"Finnegan. Bloody Finnegan—the next word is Finnegan."

"I remember the words—I'm just astounding you with my vocal prowess."

"Unless you're able to transfigure your throat—which I do not advise whilst imbibing—or at any other time, for that matter—unless you knew a competent mediwizard—and even then—if you had it changed, would you recognize your own voice? Or would it always feel as if someone was standing over your shoulder and speaking for you…" Severus blinks. "What?"

"I don't know. How many have you had?" Potter wobbles a bit.

"Two."

"How many do you usually have?"

"One. I haven't got any marshmallows. You're a terrible singer."

"You aren't any good, either."

"But I, Mister Potter, have a sensible allotment of shame. You do not. You'd parade yourself in front of the whole world and sing—just like that." Severus sits up on his newly transfigured couch. It is black, as requested, and the upholstery feels like soft suede or rough velvet.

"The only people who've heard me sing are you and anyone eavesdropping on the Gryffindor boys' shower."

"So—every greasy pervert in Hogwarts, then? Fair enough."

"Well, you're the only greasy pervert I'll sing for from now on."

"Pardon me while I swoon. Oh—no—I meant to say, have another." Severus reaches for the bottle of his special brew, only to have it swept out of reach. "Potter."

"You can't hold your liquor at all."

"And you can?"

"I'm doing all right." Potter steadies himself. "Can I sit with you?"

"It's your couch," he says.

"It's your cottage."

"It's your couch in my cottage—you are in my cottage—you shall sit with me on your couch in my cottage," Severus tells him.

Potter crashes down next to him. "…I didn't know this stuff was so strong. I'm supposed to be, like—one of the most powerful whatever—I made you a couch," he announces with conviction.

"Your couch. In my cottage."

"I'm giving it to you. As a present."

"Birthday present?"

"It's my birthday, not yours." Potter edges closer.

"Either way."

"When is your birthday?"

Severus furrows his brows. "January."

"I missed it while we were in the room," Potter frowns. "I need to get you something."

"I don't have space for another couch."

"It won't be a couch. It'll be something good. Not that this isn't good. Especially for a first try. I've never done a couch before."

He watches Potter's mouth move and is absolutely entranced. "Oh?" Severus doesn't get any further.

XXXXX

It is not pretty.

All right—it might be pretty to Potter, who has a strange sort of blindness to the visual aesthetic. "Get them—off," he gasps, tugging at the fabric.

Severus peels Harry out of his trousers. Potter's stomach is even more pale than the rest of him—Snape takes the opportunity to lick the skin at his navel. He tastes a hint of salt.

"Oh, please," Harry begs, burying his hands in Severus' hair. He loses his balance as the older wizard yanks the trousers off one leg; it is the perfect opportunity to shove him down onto the couch and claim his mouth. Potter makes needy growling noises as Severus forces their lips together—Harry's tongue is in his mouth—the kiss is wet and messy and desperate. Fingers rip at the buttons on Snape's shirt and at his trouser placket. "Bed?"

"Here." He traps Potter in the cage of his arms and legs. Severus lowers his head, burying his face in the crook of Harry's neck, feasting on his scent.

"Bite," the younger wizard whimpers.

Severus tries to slow down, to be careful. He nips at the offered neck, at the inside of Potter's wrist, and finally closes his teeth around a stiff, pink nipple. Potter tenses at the sting, his hips thrusting against the older Severus' stomach. He lets out a low wail and twines his fingers with Snape's, gasping and jerking under the cruel, cutting mouth as it nurses his abused flesh.

And then Harry is pulling him up, guiding Severus until he sits astride. "Will this hurt your knee?" Harry asks.

An odd thought penetrates the haze. "Actually—it hasn't hurt at all. Not since—"

"Good." Potter hardly flicks his fingers and Severus feels a warm, penetrating slickness.

"Where did you learn that spell?"

"Got it out of a book—who knew they were good for something?"

Severus wipes the smug look from Potter's face by lowering himself onto the younger man's straining prick. He feels the slightest burn of friction as Harry thrusts upward.

Awkward, yes. Clumsy. The word 'undignified' comes to mind. Their rhythm is off.

It is fantastic.

"Brilliant."

All right, brilliant will do. "Your couch needs a headboard," Severus groans, bracing himself on Potter's chest.

"Critic—nh." Harry keeps a death grip on his hips, tugging at each downward stroke until Severus is slamming into each intrusion.

There isn't a fire. Light comes from a lamp near his worktable. The couch shakes and shudders along with them—Severus wonders if Potter has transfigured a piece of furniture that is structurally s—

The legs on the right side of the couch snap and send them sprawling onto the parlor floor. Despite conflicting evidence, Severus attributes the unmanly shriek that accompanies the fall to Harry.

"Ow."

"Sorry—are you—" Harry has the nerve to nearly choke on laughter. "Are you okay?"

"No. And if you fear violent retribution, Mister Potter, you will finish what you started. In," he cautions, "a less athletic manner than before, I think." Severus rolls onto his back.

"You know," Harry chuckles, "you could just admit you like it better when you're underneath."

In answer, Severus folds his arms and raises his knees. "If you'd be so kind," he drawls.

The hardwood floor is—soft?—against his skin. The parlor has a wine red carpet now. Harry crawls over him and places a kiss on his cheek, forehead, lips—

He enters Severus with a gentle push. There is no burn this time; only a slick, filled sensation as Harry's cock pierces him. "Harry?"

"Severus," Harry says, and Severus cannot tell if the look in his eyes is due to emotion or Gandismash's Best.

"Your hand is on my hair."

"Oh—g—sorry." Harry shifts his hand, combing through the tangle of mostly black locks.

"That doesn't mean stop," he growls, and then the both of them are rutting, Potter plowing into him with frenzied strokes as Severus arches into the relentless movement. Harry manages to hit every pleasurable spot in his body—a sweat-slicked hand works between them and around Snape's neglected arousal. He doesn't have to do much. Every caress of swollen flesh leaves Severus closer and closer to the brink.

"In—in—in," he chants until the word becomes a strangled keening high in his throat, his legs tense, and Severus comes, spurting his release into Potter's grip.

Oh, worth it.

Harry lifts his sodden fingers to his mouth and swirls his tongue around the digits. Potter's right nipple is reddened from Severus' earlier attentions—the sated man below reaches up with his free hand and pinches.

Harry cries out, clutches Severus' hand hard against his chest, and finds his release, humping madly into the older man's warmth until he collapses into a willing, waiting embrace.

It is a long while before either of them move.

XXXXX

"…They're going to need me for—" Potter sighs. He continues, but with a certain measure of care, like someone picking through a tangle of brush. "People need the Boy Who Lived right now. Don't—I know all I am to a lot of them is some sort of symbol. But symbols are important. And if it helps Hogwarts—if it helps St. Mungo's—I'll go out every weekend and wave, shake hands. They can have that. But I'm… I deserve to have a life. The rest of the time." Harry stares at the lamp above the bed. "I'm twenty-five, you know. It's time."

Snape arches a brow. "Time?" he echoes.

"It's time I had a proper boyfriend."

"I don't know why you think you'll find that here."

"Git."

XXXXX

Severus wakes Potter with a nightmare. He is put to sleep with a kiss.

XXXXX

Potter stays.

He remains at the house until the aforementioned Saturday, when he dons his golden robes and tells Severus that he will be back as soon as he can. 

Alone for the first time in days, the potions maker decides that he will make a trip under polyjuice to town for groceries. 

While he is there, he has tea at the bakery and leafs through a week's worth of old Daily Prophets. The news is not particularly interesting until he gets halfway through the week and the paper proclaims—

BOY WHO LIVED—MISSING!

It spins the rather exciting tale of six inexplicably confunded Aurors, a stolen broom, an open window, an unattended birthday party, and one vanished savior of the wizarding world. 'No comment' seems to be the only official quote, but from every other quarter comes wild speculation. The picture with the story shows off an uneaten birthday cake and some very annoyed guests.

Thursday's issue dares to ask—

WHERE IS HARRY POTTER?

And runs an article in which two leading experts (on what, it never specifies) both agree that Harry Potter has most likely been captured by Death Eaters. One claims that Potter is dead, while the other says it is probable that he is alive and that they will try to trade him for immunity and/or the release of prisoners.

Friday is a bit more gloomy—

THE BOY WHO—LIVES?

It boasts an interview with the muggles who raised him and with Remus Lupin, his godfather—

"He wishes."

The article adds to the term, calling Lupin Potter's 'adopted godfather.'

Severus thinks that picking and choosing your own godfather defeats the purpose of the system. 

Lupin tells the reporters that he is confident Potter will be returned.

All in all, though, Snape prefers today's headline:

HARRY WHODUNIT!

—In which a Ministry official makes a comment. 'We are looking into the matter.' The paper interviews one of the confunded Aurors who tearfully confesses that he cannot remember the events leading up to the 'horrific attack'. It also mentions that Potter is not expected to appear at a scheduled event—the unveiling of a Veteran's Memorial in Ottery St. Catchpole.

"More tea, Miss?"

"Oh—no, thank you." Severus folds the paper and looks down at his hands to make sure he hasn't reverted back.

"Gripping stuff, idn't it? We're all wearing gold ribbons until they find him—bless his poor heart." The proprietress clucks her tongue and shakes her head.

It isn't until later, when Severus finds himself with an armload of parcels, that he thinks about a room full of Harry's friends and so-called family. He imagines the scene, using the newspaper picture as a basis. And he imagines Potter in a dark room donning the Golden Boy uniform. His owl arriving—redirected by whom?

Harry had known he had to go to a birthday party—his own birthday party.

And instead of simply accepting the gift, he'd chosen to cast against six Aurors, commit petty theft, and tail his owl through Merlin knows what—

He chose Severus.

XXXXX

Potter arrives back at eight fifty-three in the evening. He is carrying a small suitcase.

"Hungry?"

"Starving. You didn't have to wait for me. I didn't even know you were going to make anything."

"I was hoping the guilt would drive you to cook tomorrow. I have a batch of Widow's Curse due."

"See, I knew you needed a house elf. Help, at least. I've decided I'm going to make you dishes. You need them."

"I could use a set," he concedes. "How was—your day?"

Potter sits down at the table. "Long," he sighs. "How was yours?"

They discover they are as good at talking about shopping as they are about food. Combine food and shopping—the conversation flows easily.

"The cliff," Potter asks, "it's pretty much solid rock?"

XXXXX

Severus wakes with one skinny leg pushed between his own. An arm rests across his waist.

It still feels like some strange practical joke. Harry is in his bed, pressed so close that Severus can feel his heartbeat.

"Did I wake you?"

"…No."

The arm draws back so that Harry's fingertips rest lightly on his hip. "Is this okay?"

"It's all right." Severus feels a breath on the back of his neck and resists the urge to whimper. Then fingertips ease under the fabric of his top and burn against bare skin.

"Is this?"

"Yes," he answers the breath. Potter's leg angles further between his own and the invading hand rubs back and forth.

"I love your stomach. I love touching your stomach." Harry rubs his cheek against Severus' neck and sighs. "I missed your stomach." 

"…It's nothing special."

"It's the softest part of you."

"You only like it because I let you touch it."

"No. I like it and you let me touch it. …Will you look at me?"

Severus edges onto his back.

"It would help if you opened your eyes," Harry says.

He does. Sunlight stripes the bedroom ceiling above Potter's head. Nearly black hair sticks up in every direction. The scar across his forehead is a jagged white line. The warmth of the bed has pinked his cheeks. "Hello, Mister Potter."

"Hullo, Professor—I should call you Master Snape now, shouldn't I?" His emerald eyes are bright in the dim light of the bedroom. Potter props himself on his elbow and runs his fingers over tender skin. 

"Master—I might get used to that."

"Shut up," Harry chuckles and buries his face against Severus' shoulder. "Good morning."

"Yes. It is."

XXXXX

Harry plays with his owl, writes letters, helps in the kitchen, and transfigures him a set of stemware that would make Better Lairs and Castles green with envy.

"We don't really need all of that."

"Yeah. I got carried away once I figured out how. Maybe I'll give some of them as a gift. I owe one of my Aurors an apology."

"Why is that?"

"Well. We've all had a talk about me coming out here. They want to know where I'm going, everyone was upset, words were used, spells were cast—I was a little hard on one of them. But you've got to set boundaries. I'll let them guard me as long as I'm at Hogwarts—they'll let me come here alone. By the way—I was told that the person who passed on your gift was the Headmistress. She told me she expects a letter from you, so at least one person knows we're still in contact. And she asked me if you could avoid addressing it to 'the great shrieking harpy' this time."

"Isn't that her first name?"

XXXXX

Severus turns to the editorial section of the Prophet. "Live here."

"…We'll need to get on the floo network."

"Agreed."

"Okay, then," Harry says, and goes on transfiguring a set of paper-thin, square, periwinkle dinner plates.

Ten minutes later, Potter starts laughing.

XXXXX

There are many things they do not talk about.

Any mention of the Headmaster, depending on the context, sends Severus into a rage, a sulk, or a silent, solitary bout of weeping. Talk of the Ministry, the War, Death Eater trials—all leave him uneasy and unable to make civil conversation. 

Potter doesn't like talking about Albus either. He also hates discussing the War, the Ministry, Aurors, Death Eaters, former Death Eaters, his parents, the Dursleys, the Marauders, his school years at Hogwarts, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, the Weasleys—"I don't like thinking about anything when I'm here."

"That would explain it."

"No—this is like—it's like—the outside world is out there—and we're in here. I don't like when the outside world gets in. …I told Ron and Hermione that I'm living with someone. They said they're happy for me. Word got to Remus. He wants to meet my 'special someone'."

"Ugh. You didn't call me that."

"Who said I was talking about you?"

Snape throws a cushion at him. He has quite a few, now, in almost every color. Some have tassels—one of Potter's transfiguration phases. They don't do much for the atmosphere, but they do make excellent projectile weapons.

XXXXX

The Wolfsbane inquiry comes back with a question—

"This is ridiculous."

"Why?" Harry asks.

"Because, Potter, you cannot store Wolfsbane. They want a discount for ordering in bulk—I could make forty doses of Wolfsbane, but unless they have forty werewolves to drink it…" He blinks. "You don't think—surely not."

Potter weighs in carefully on the issue. "That's a lot of werewolves."

XXXXX

It is a lot of werewolves. Madame Skoll meets with four of them in the back of one of the seedier Knockturn Alley pubs.

Apparently, a certain Lord had decided that it would be in his interest to have certain key figures in certain organizations under his control. A certain werewolf pack in league with this certain Lord had graciously donated the highly virulent saliva, and all certain lackeys needed to do was to walk up and inject these key figures. They'd all been blackmailed. Some had folded—some had not.

They insist on absolute secrecy. They have the gall to make vague threats against his life even as Severus knows he holds their collective future in his hands. They also hate other werewolves.

He likes them immediately.

He quotes a price per dose that is not so exorbitant.

They accept.

XXXXX

"A week's worth of work for a month's worth of pay. A good month, mind."

"What will you do the rest of the month?"

"Research. My first love."

"Killing dragons?"

"Who can say?"

"You'd think you could. …Won't be much room to work in here."

"I'll need to rent a space anyhow—we cannot have werewolves traipsing up our front walk to collect their doses."

"They could floo straight to your laboratory." Potter smiles beatifically.

"Yes, when I've…" Severus casts a sidelong glance.

"I made you something. You might want to check out the back door. Happy Early Birthday."

Severus doesn't bother to tell him that there is no back door—because he knows there will be when he looks, and beyond that—"You cut it into the rock?"

"Should be perfect—except for ventilation. Which I figured you might want to sort out. You're the one who'll be breathing the air inside, after all. And if you need more space—tables—levels—I can fix it."

"Like you fixed the couch?"

"I did fix the couch. You look good today—take a bath with me."

XXXXX

Harry is at the cottage as often as he is not. The Boy Who Lived is still in high demand. Every week another argument occurs—either it is the assigned security that he keeps having to duck in order to get back to the cottage, the Headmistress, the Weasels, or Lupin—about his vanishing act.

Severus refuses most of Madame Skoll's requests. He sets up his laboratory (cave with lots of flat bits and some fairly decent shelves) and invests in a few more cauldrons.

Potter gets in the habit of leaving a handful of coins on the mantle whenever he comes to stay. He always mutters something about hating to carry around loose change. Neither of them acknowledges that all wizarding money could be considered loose change. It is Potter's way of contributing something other than shockingly opulent rugs, curtains, and towels to the household; Severus prefers it to Harry sneaking money into the tins below the sink and throwing off his accounts.

It isn't that he minds being Harry Potter's dirty secret. He much prefers it to the alternatives, i.e., not being with Harry, being savaged by Weasels—but he can tell that it wears on Potter.

Something is going to give. He knows it.

XXXXX

"I've got to go."

Severus watches him pull on gold robes—sometimes the ones with red trim, sometimes the robes that shimmer—and does not ask where he'll be going. He doesn't ask whether Potter will be back, either. If their positions were reversed, he knows Potter would ask bluntly. The most he can manage is—"Am I cooking for two this evening?" It is not subtle—Harry sees right through it. But he pretends not to.

"Yes," Harry will say, or, "it's my turn tonight." When the answer is no, like it is tonight, he will say something like—"Nope—you'll have the cottage all to yourself. Don't go throwing wild parties—and if you invite your other boyfriends over, tell them to clear out before midnight."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll throw them out."

"It's my cottage," Snape says, just to be difficult.

"Well, then I'll just have to single-handedly overthrow the Ministry and crown myself Emperor—and then the house will belong to me and I can throw out anyone I want," he replies. Potter's boots magically adjust themselves snugly around his calves. "I'll try and be back as early as I can."

"Your life is your own, Potter—you do not belong to me." Severus returns to making sharp little marks with the quill.

"…Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You do want me here, don't you?"

"Yes, Mister Potter, and the sooner you go, the sooner you may return to regale me with tales of the outside world."

The bristles of the broom scratch the floor as Potter drags it towards the door. He mutters. "…Have to be such a git all the…"

"I'll leave supper cold in the icebox."

"You don't have to do that."

"Might as well. If I'm going to be cooking for eight anyhow—"

"Eight?"

"The rest of my lovers."

"Shut up—greasy g—" Harry snickers and clatters out the front door—the thump of his boots, the swish of the broom, the door banging shut—

And it is quiet. Severus sets aside the ledger, sets his chin in his hands, and allows himself to smile.

XXXXX

At a fundraiser, someone makes an attempt on Potter's life. Harry hides out at the cottage for the next two weeks and refuses to talk about it.

XXXXX

Brewing forty doses of Wolfsbane should be more taxing than it is. Perhaps it is because he has no distractions—but he silently suspects that like Potter (who is able to transfigure a handful of gravel into a set of glassware), he has received some sort of strange benefit from the encounter with Voldemort.

The werewolves wear hoods and floo in to the laboratory at staggered intervals for the potion. Madame Skoll never knows who they are, but they pay on time.

Severus begins to keep up with journals again. He sends for EuroPotion pamphlets.

"EuroPotion? When is that?"

"June."

"Are you going?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"As Madame Skoll or Severus Snape?"

"I shouldn't enjoy taking polyjuice for a week. I'll go as myself—if I do go."

"Won't that be dangerous?"

"Well—one cannot hide forever." Which is an odd thing for him to say, he realizes, but maybe it wouldn't hurt to go somewhere just once in his life.

Severus ends up sending in an application and a proposal to present at the conference. He still doesn't know how to kill a dragon—but he does know techniques for brewing and tailoring the Wolfsbane potion. In a sudden burst of optimism, he checks the box marked 'and guest' next to his name.

He receives a packet a week later.

Severus Snape will be presenting an introduction to brewing the Wolfsbane potion Sunday morning at nine in the Auxiliary Brewer's room.

"Send me a postcard," Harry says.

"I thought you might find it in your schedule to come with me."

Potter blinks at him. "It's in June."

"I wasn't aware one needed to book you years in advance."

"No, it's… it's all the way off in June. You're inviting me to go away with you for a week in June."

"You might find it all terribly boring. Come down for a day, if you like. We'll disguise you somehow—and no one will be looking for Harry Potter in Vienna. For the love of—Merlin—what's wrong?"

Potter fastens himself around Severus' neck and holds on.

"What?"

"Nothing. …It's nice to know that you're not getting rid of me."

XXXXX

Potter puts up a Christmas tree and two separate sprigs of mistletoe.

Severus is assaulted at all hours in the name of holiday tradition.

They spend Christmas Eve at the cottage. Severus gets an armchair for the laboratory, a few books he'd mentioned wanting, and Potter wearing a bow.

Harry goes to the Burrow on Christmas morning. He comes back with more gifts and hands one of the brightly wrapped parcels to Severus.

It is marked 'to Harry's special someone.'

"What is this...?"

"Uh. It's from—it's a Weasley sweater. And I think they think you're a girl. …Don't laugh so hard. You'll break something."

XXXXX

Harry brings a guest to the cottage on a gray Wednesday afternoon in January, a few days after Severus' quiet but satisfying birthday celebration.

Severus is not made aware of the visit before it happens. He retreats to the kitchen from a long morning in the cave to find Harry conversing softly with Lupin over tea. Harry wears his red robes and sits cross-legged on the couch. Lupin is dressed as usual—in a shabby cardigan.

"Severus," Harry says.

Lupin's eyes are wide.

"I'll open up a bottle of wine," Severus says.

XXXXX

It doesn't go well—but it doesn't involve bloodshed, so there is that.

"Don't worry about dinner. I'm not hungry." Potter shuffles into the bedroom and wriggles beneath the covers, boots and all.

XXXXX

It is a rare thing when Harry wants to be penetrated. He doesn't take to it the way Severus does. He needs to be held before and after. He only likes it face to face.

Harry bites his lip.

Severus moves with excruciating slowness while rocking into him, filling him as gently and completely as possible.

"Little more," Harry begs. His hands clasp behind Severus' neck. His legs wind around the older man's waist. "More—oh—there." 

Subdued as he seems, Potter requires little encouragement. Harry spends himself quickly, clutching and clawing at his lover's back.

It takes Severus more time. Potter recovers his senses and watches. Severus has to close his eyes. "I like looking at you," Harry whispers. "Look at me."

Harry's irises are a perfect green—and then Severus is being drawn down inside. For the briefest instant, their minds touch.

Potter cups his cheek. "I'm not leaving."

Severus comes helplessly.

Afterward, he lies next to Harry and can't seem to drive back bad memories. Neither of them speak—but every few minutes, they exchange the mental equivalent of a nudge.

"…I meant it. I've faced worse than Remus. He'll just have to get used to the idea. They all will."

"Does that 'all' encompass the entire wizarding world?"

"Mm-hm," Potter says.

Quiet.

"You don't hear many crickets in the winter."

"No. …I haven't stayed in bed all day since the week after I bought the house. That may be on tomorrow's agenda."

"We could order in for supper. …Do you want the lamp tonight?"

"I'm indifferent."

Potter raises his hand. The lamp winks out.

XXXXX

EPILOGUE

XXXXX

He isn't what you'd call a recluse.

True, he spends most of his time in two places—Potter's suite at Hogwarts (in addition to being probably the most powerful wizard in Europe, he has risen to the lofty position of Assistant Quidditch Coach and substitutes during Lupin's 'sick days') and Snape Cottage (christened with capitals by reporters who'd never seen it, and assumed it was much larger)—but he insists on making the rounds for ingredients himself.

On a good day, he gets in a full hour of shopping before this happens:

"Master Snape—Severus Snape! Roy Spritely, Action Wizarding News—may we ask you a few questions—is it true that you and Harry Potter are on the outs?"

Severus selects beetle eyes individually. It takes longer, but is the only way to ensure quality. "No," he comments, filling up a canister with half an ounce.

"What do you have to say regarding the rumors linking Potter with socialite Galarya Galaxy?"

"Completely false," he says. "Get away from me."

"Just a few more questions, Master Snape," the reporter insists. He shuffles through a stack of cards.

Severus notes that the man has teeth like Gilderoy Lockhart. He sidles away down the aisle toward the counter.

"Any whole bats today, Master Snape?"

"Four—one in each size. And bring me three tails while you're going back—rat, and as long as you've got." Severus busies himself browsing through the seed bins next to the counter while he waits for the clerk to collect his order.

"Master Snape! Master Snape! Phoenix Steele, United Tattler—"

"Oi! We saw him first! Master Snape—Roy Spritely, Action Wizarding News—"

"Yes, you've said," Severus says, selecting a mixed bag of seeds.

"Your thoughts on Draco Malfoy's new book—'The Eater Inside Me'?"

"It's rubbish. A lot of overblown rumor presented as fact. I've no doubt it will sell millions. Now get away from me."

"Master Snape—the AAMDH have recently denounced your work—reactions, comments?"

"Who are the AA—"

"The Association Against Malicious Dragon-Hunting."

"I've never head of them—and I don't hunt dragons. They die, yes, but there's very little hunting involved."

The clerk returns and passes over a box and a wrapped packet containing the tails. "Stunned, sir, should be immobile for two hours or so. I'll put it on your tab."

"Thank you." He turns and walks smartly into another reporter.

"Master Snape—Severus Snape—Itza Fabuloso, Miraculous Mages Daily—what's it like to sleep with Harry Potter?"

Severus blinks. "Hard on the knees. Excuse me."

XXXXX

A wizard of rather ill repute tells a story to the papers about an extended tryst with Potter. Three days later, he develops stomach cramps so severe that he is hospitalized. 

"Severus."

"Yes?"

Potter puts down the Daily Prophet. "Can you explain this?"

"Most likely ate something that didn't agree with him."

"Tell me it isn't fatal."

"It isn't fatal."

"Don't do it again," Harry says. "Though I appreciate the thought."

XXXXX

He arrives by floo on Christmas Eve.

"Oh, Severus—you're here. Hey, everyone! Severus finally showed," Bill grins. "I'm just teasing—can I take your gifts? I'll put them under the tree."

"Ah—yes." Severus hands over the meticulously wrapped and labeled boxes. "Thank you," he adds. The Burrow is warm and cluttered. It carries the heavy scents of cooking.

"No problem. My Mum wants to talk to you."

"Whatever for? Hasn't that woman yelled enough?"

"She wants you to make Harry an honest man. Since he seems to have settled on you, and all. And she made you a sweater this year."

"I do hope this one isn't pink."

"It's blue. She refuses to do black. Wear it tomorrow and you'll avoid a battle." Bill nods sagely.

"Noted."

"Hey—no fair. Get your own." Harry enters the hallway, practically bouncing. He gives Bill a mock glare. "This one is mine." He snakes an arm around Severus' waist.

"Easy, now. I was just scaring him before he went and faced Mum. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone," he teases, leering at the pair of them.

"Shut up," Harry laughs.

Bill makes kiss noises and bears the gifts down the hallway into a bright room.

Severus stands very still. The Burrow might as well be another planet.

"How are you holding up?" Harry rubs his hand possessively over the small of his back.

"So far, so good."

"I'm glad you came. You look nice. I like the robes with the silver trim."

"You're just saying that so I won't leave."

"No. This year, you should stay. You picked the perfect year to ease in. I know I was a prat about last Christmas—but this is the perfect one."

"And why is that?"

"The twins are spending the hols in the Netherlands. So you don't have to worry about your meal exploding. What's more," Potter lowers his voice to a whisper, "Percy is here. For the first time since before the war. No one is even going to notice you. Except me. Kiss," he orders, and Severus obliges. "Which is the way I like it, confidentially."

"I know you own me, Potter—no need to provide reassurance."

"Come on. Let's go join the others. I'll be right there with you."

"Promise?"

"Promise." Harry takes his hand and leads him down the hallway.

Severus squares his shoulders. "I bought Lupin some chocolate."

"Good choice."

END.


End file.
